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•^a: 




DR. SEVIER 


BY 

GEORGE W. CABLE 


Charles Scribner’s Sons 
New York 


1913 


Copyright, 1883 and tZB/f. 
By GEORGE W. CABLE 


Ail rights reserveee 

/ // 




TO MY FRIEND 


MARION A. BAKER 


4 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

I. — The Doctor . . . , * e 5 

II. — A Young Stranger.10 

III. — His Wife.17 

rV. — Convalescence and Acquaintance . • 22 

V. — Hard Questions.29 

VI. — Nesting.34 

VII. — Disappearance . . . . « *45 

VIII. — A Question of Book-keeping ... 52 

IX.—When the AVind Blows . . * . 61 

X. — Gentles and Commons . , • • 66 

XI_A Pantomime.73 

XII. —‘‘She’s all the World” .... 81 

XIII. — The Bough Breaks.87 

XIV. — Hard Speeches and High Temper . 94 

XV. — The Cradle Falls.99 





2 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

XVI. ~ Many Waters.107 

XYII. — Kaphael Ristofalo , , . . 118 

XVIIL—How He Did It . » • . 127 

XIX. — Another Patient . • • • 134 

XX.—Alice . . . . . .138 

XXI. —The Sun at Midnight . . .142 

XXII. — Borrower Turned Lender . . .160 

XXIII. — Wear and Tear.169 

XXIY. — Brought to Bay.177 

XXY. — The Doctor Dines Out , . . 184 

XXYL—The Trough of the Sea . . . 194 

XXVII. — Out of the Frying-Pan . . . 207 

XXVIII. — “ Oh, where is my Love ? ” . . 215 

XXIX. — Release. — Narcisse .... 224 

XXX. — Lighting Ship.233 

XXXI.—At Last.243 

XXXII. — A Rising Star.248 

XXXIII.—Bees, Wasps, and Butterflies , . 258 

XXXIV. — Toward the Zenith .... 262 
XXXV.—To Sigh, yet Feel no Pain . . 268 




CONTENTS. 


3 


Chapter Page 

XXXVI. — What Name ?.276 

XXXVIL — Pestilence.280 

XXXVIII. — “I must be Cruel only to be 

Kind”.286 

XXXIX. — “ Pettent Prate ” . . , . 294 

XL.—Sweet Bells Jangled . . . 300 

XLI. — Mirage.310 

XLII. — Ristofalo and the Rector . , 317 

XLIII. — Shall she Come or Stay ? . . 324 

XLIV. — What would you Do ? . . . 329 

XLV. — Narcisse wdth News . , . 335 

XLVI. — A Prison Memento . . . 340 

XLVIL—Now I Lay Me— . . . . 345 

XLVIII. — Rise up, my Love, my Fair One I . 351 
XLIX. — A Bundle of Hopes . . . 357 

L.—Fall Ini. ..... 366 
LI. — Blue Bonnets over the Border . 372 
LII.—A Pass through the Lines . . 378 

LIII. — Try Again.384 

LIV. —‘‘Who Goes There?” . . .394 


4 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter 

LV. — Dixie 

LVI. — Fire and Sword . 
LVII. — Almost in Sight . 
LVIIL —A Golden Sunset . 
LIX. — Afterglow 
LX. —“Yet shall he live” 
LXI. — Peace . , • 


Page 

412 

425 

435 

445 

454 

465 

470 




DE. SEVIER 


CHAPTER I. 


THE DOCTOR. 


HE main road to wealth in New Orleans has long 



-L been Carondelet street. There you see the most 
alert faces ; noses — it seems to one — with more and 
sharper edge, and eyes smaller and brighter and with 
less distance between them than one notices in other 
streets. It is there that the stock and bond brokers 
hurry to and fro and run together promiscuously — the 
cunning and the simple, the headlong and the wary — at 
the four clanging strokes of the Stock Exchange gong. 
There rises the tall facade of the Cotton Exchange 
Looking in from the sidewalk as you pass, you see its 
main hall, thronged but decorous, the quiet engine-roon 
of the surrounding city’s most far-reaching occupation, 
and at the hall’s farther end you descry the “ Future 
Room,” and hear the unearthly ramping and bellowing 
of the bulls and bears. Up and down the street, on 
either hand, are the ship-brokers and insurers, and in the 
upper stories foreign consuls among a multitude of law 
yers and notaries. 

In 1856 this street was jnst assuming its present 



6 


DR. SEVIER. 


character. The cotton merchants were making it theii 
favorite place of commercial domicile. The open thor¬ 
oughfare served in lieu of the present exchanges; men 
ma/te fortunes standing on the curb-stone, and during 
bank hours the sidewalks were perpetually crowded with 
cotton factors, buyers, brokers, weighers, reweighers, 
classers, pickers, pressers, and samplers, and the air was 
laden with cotton quotations and prognostications. 

Number 3J, second floor, front, was the ofl^ce of Dr. 
Sevier. This oflSce was convenient to everything. Im¬ 
mediately under its windows lay the sidewalks where 
congregated the men who, of all in New Orleans, could 
best afford to pay for being sick, and least desired to 
die. Canal street, the city’s leading artery, was just 
below, at the near left-hand corner. Beyond it lay the 
older town, not yet impoverished in those days, — the 
French quarter. A single square and a half off at the 
right, and in plain view from the front windows, shone 
the dazzling white walls of the St. Charles Hotel, where 
the nabobs of the river plantations came and dwelt with 
their fair-handed wives in seasons of peculiar anticipation, 
when it is well to be near the highest medical skill. In 
the opposite direction a three minutes’ quick drive 
around the upper corner and down Common street carried 
the Doctor to his ward in the great Charity Hospital, and 
to the school of medicine, where he filled the chair set 
apart to the holy ailments of maternity. Thus, as it 
were, he laid his left hand on the rich and his right on 
the poor; and he was not left-handed. 

Not that his usual attitude was one of benediction. 
He stood straight up in his austere pure-mindedness, tall, 
slender, pale, sharp of voice, keen of glance, stern in 
judgment, aggressive in debate, and fixedly untender 
everywhere, except — but always except — in the sick 


THJB DOOTOR. 


7 


chamber. His inner heart was all of flesh; but his 
demands for the rectitude of mankind pointed out like 
the muzzles of cannon through the embrasures of his 
virtues. To demolish evil I — that seemed the finest of 
aims; and even as a physician, that was, most likely, his 
motive until later years and a better self-knowledge had 
taught him that to do good was still finer and better. He 
waged war — against malady. To fight; to stifle; to cut 
down ; to uproot; to overwhelm, — these were his springs 
of action. That their results were good proved that his 
sentiment of benevolence was strong and high; but it 
was well-nigh shut out of sight by that impatience of evil 
which is very fine and knightly in youngest manhood, but 
which we like to see give way to kindlier moods as the 
earlier heat of the blood begins to pass. 

He changed in later years; this was in 1856. To 
“ resist not evil” seemed to him then only a rather feeble 
sort of knavery. To face it in its nakedness, and to 
inveigh against it in high places and low, seemed the 
consummation of all manliness; and manliness was the 
key-note of his creed. There was no other necessity in 
this life. 

“ But a man must live,” said one of his kindred, to 
whom, truth to tell, he had refused assistance. 

“ No, sir; that is just what he can’t do. A man must 
die I So, while he lives, let him be a man I ” 

Hew inharmonious a setting, then, for Dr. Sevier, 
was Carondelet street I As he drove, each morning, 
down to that point, he had to pass tlirough long, irregular 
files of feUow-beings thronging either sidewalk, — a sadly 
U D(;hivalr ic grouping of men whose daily and yearly life 
was subordinated only and entirely to the getting of 
wealth, and whose every eager motion was a repetition ol 
the sinister old maxim that “ Time is money.” 


s 


Ds. 8jayi£B. 


“Itfs a great deal more, sir; ifs life I” the Doctoi 
always retorted. 

Among these groups, moreover, were many who were 
all too well famed for illegitimate fortune. Many occu¬ 
pations connected with the handling of cotton yielded big 
harvests in perquisites. At every jog of the Doctor’s 
horse, men came to view whose riches were the outcome 
of semi-respectable larceny. It was a day of reckless 
operation; much of the conmierce that came to New 
Orleans was simply, as one might say, beached in Caron- 
delet street. The sight used to keep the long, thin, keen¬ 
eyed doctor in perpetual indignation. 

“ Look at the wreckers 1 ” he would say. 

It was breakfast at eight, indignation at nine, dyspepsia 
at ten. 

So his setting was not merely inharmonious; it was 
damaging. He grew sore on the whole matter of money¬ 
getting. 

“Yes, I have money. But I don’t go after it. It 
comes to me, because I seek and render service for the 
service’s sake. It will come to anybody else the same 
way; and why- should it come any other way ? ” 

He not only had a low regard for the motives of most 
seekers of wealth; he went further, and fell into much 
disDelief of poor men’s needs. For instance, he looked 
upon a man’s inability to find employment, or upon a poor 
fellow’s run of bad luck, as upon the placarded woes of 
a hurdy-gurdy beggar. 

“If he wants work he will find it. As for begging, it 
ought to be easier for any true man to starve than to 
beg.” 

The sentiment was ungentle, but it came from the 
bottom of his belief concerning himself, and a longing f ji 
moral greatness in all men. 


THE DOOTOK. 


t 

“ However,” he would add, thrusting his hand into hia 
pocket and bringing out his purse, “ I’ll help any man to 
make himself useful. And the sick — well, the sick, as a 
matter of course. Only I must know what I’m doing.” 

Have some of us knowm Want? To have known her— 
tliough to love her was impossible — is “a liberal educa¬ 
tion.” The Doctor was learned ; but this acquaintanceship, 
this education, he had never got. Hence his untender¬ 
ness. Shall we condemn the fault? Yes. And tlic 
man? We have not the face. To be which he never 
knowingly failed to be, and at the same time to feel 
tenderly for the unworthy, to deal kindly with the erring, 
— it is a double grace that hangs not always in easy reach 
even of the tallest. The Doctor attained to it — but in 
later years ; meantime, this story — which, I believe, had 
he ever been poor would never have been written. 


10 


DB* SJE2VXEB* 


CHAPTER n. 

A YOUNG STRANGER. 

I N 1856 New Orleans was in the midst of the darkest 
ten years of her history. Yet she was full of new-comers 
from all parts of the commercial world, — strangers seek 
ing livelihood. The ravages of cholera and yellow-fever, 
far from keeping them away, seemed actually to draw 
them. In the three years 1853, ’54, and ’55, the ceme¬ 
teries had received over thirty-five thousand dead; yet 
here, in 1856, besides shiploads of European immigrants, 
came hundreds of unacclimated youths, from all parts of 
the United States, to fill the wide gaps which they 
imagined had been made in the ranks of the great export¬ 
ing city’s clerking force. 

Upon these pilgrims Dr. Sevier cast an eye full of 
interest, and often of compassion hidden under outward 
impatience. “Who wants to see,” he would demand, 
“men — and women —increasing the risks of this un¬ 
certain life?” But he was also full of respect for them. 
There was a certain nobility rightly attributable to emi¬ 
gration itself in the abstract. It was the cutting loose 
from friends and aid,—those sweet-named temptations,-- 
and the going forth into self-appointed exile and into dan 
gers known and unknown, trusting to the help of one’s 
own right hand to exchange honest toil for honest bread 
and raiment. His eyes kindled to see the goodly, broad, 
red-cheeked fellows. Sometimes, though, he saw women, 
and sometimes tender women, by their side; and that 


A TOUNO STRANGER. 


11 


Bight touched the pathetic chord of his heart with a rude 
twangle that vexed him. 

It was on a certain bright, cool morning early in 
October that, as he drove down Carondelet street toward 
his office, and one of those little white omnibuses of the 
old ApoUo-street line, crowding in before his carriage, 
had compelled his driver to draw close in by the curb¬ 
stone and slacken speed to a walk, his attention chanced 
to fall upon a young man of attractive appearance, glan¬ 
cing stranger-wise and eagerly at signs and entrances while 
he moved down the street. Twice, in the moment of the 
Doctor’s enforced delay, he noticed the young stranger 
make inquiry of the street’s more accustomed frequenters, 
and that in each case he was directed farther on. But, 
the way opened, the Doctor’s horse switched his tail and 
was off, the stranger was left behind, and the next 
moment the Doctor stepped across the sidewalk and went 
up the stairs of Number 3^ to his oflSce. Something told 
him — we are apt to fall into thought on a stairway — that 
the stranger was looking for a physician. 

He had barely disposed of the three or four waiting 
messengers that arose from their chairs against the cor¬ 
ridor wall, and was still reading the anxious lines left in 
various handwritings on his slate, when the young man 
entered. He was of fair height, slenderly built, with 
soft auburn hair, a little untrimmed, neat dress, and a 
difiSdent, yet expectant and courageous, face. 

“Dr. Sevier?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Doctor, my wife is very ill; can I get you to come at 
once and see her?” 

“ Who is her physician?” 

“ I have not called any ; but we must have one now.” 

“ I don’t know about going at once. This is my hour 


12 


DK. SEVIER. 


for being in the office. How far is it, and what's the 
trouble ? ” 

“We are only three squares away, Just here in Cus* 
tom-house street.” The speaker began to add a faltering 
enumeration of some very grave symptoms. The Doctor 
noticed that he was slightly deaf; he uttered his words 
as though he did not hear them. 

“Yes,” interrupted Dr. Sevier, speaking half to him¬ 
self as he turned around to a standing case of cruel- 
looking silver-plated things on shelves; “ that’s a small 
part of the penalty women pay for the doubtful honoi 
of being our mothers. I’ll go. What is your number? 
But you had better drive back with me if you can.” He 
drew back from the glass case, shut the door, and took 
his hat. 

“ Narcisse! ” 

On the side of the office nearest the corridor a door let 
into a hall-room that afforded merely good space for the 
furniture needed by a single accountant. The Doctor 
bad other interests besides those of his profession, and, 
taking them altogether, found it necessary, or at least 
convenient, to employ continuously the services of a per¬ 
son to keep his accounts and collect his bills. Through 
the open door the book-keeper could be seen sitting on a 
high stool at a still higher desk, — a young man of hand¬ 
some profile and well-knit form. At the call of his 
name he unwound his legs from the rounds of the stool 
and leaped into the Doctor’s presence with a superlatively 
highbred bow. 

“ I shall be back in fifteen minutes,” said the Doctor. 
“ Come, Mr.-and went out with the stranger. 

Narcisse had intended to speak. He stood a moment, 
then lifted the last half inch of a cigarette to his lips, 
took a long, meditative inhalation, turned half round od 


A rOUNG STRANGER. 


la 

his hoel, dashed the remnant with fierce emphasis into a 
spittoon, ejected two long streams of smoke from hia 
nostrils, and, extending his fist toward the door by which 
the Doctor had gone out, said: — 

“ All right, ole boss I ” No, not that way. It is hard 
to give his pronunciation by letter. In the word “ right” 
he substituted an a for the r, sounding it almost in the 
same instant with the i, yet distinct from it: All a-ight, 
ole boss I ” 

Then he walked slowly back to his desk, with that feel¬ 
ing of relief which some men find in the renewal of a 
promissory note, twined his legs again among those of 
the stool, and, adding not a word, resumed his pen. 

The Doctor’s carriage was hurrying across Canal street. 

Dr. Sevier,” said the physician’s companion, “ I 
don’t know what your charges are”— 

“ The highest,” said the Doctor, whose dyspepsia was 
gnawing him just then with fine energy. The curt reply 
struck fire upon the young man. 

“I don’t propose to drive a bargain. Dr. Sevier I*' 
He flushed angrily after he had spoken, breathed with 
compressed lips, and winked savagely, with the sort of 
indignation that school-boys show to a harsh master. 

The physician answered with better self-control. 

“ What do you propose? ” 

“1 was going to propose — being a stranger to you, 
sir — to pay in advance.” The announcement was made 
with a tremulous, but triumphant, hauteur^ as though it 
must cover the physician with mortification. The speaker 
atretched out a rather long leg, and, drawing a pocket- 
book, produced a twenty-dollar piece. 

The Doctor looked full in his face with impatient sur¬ 
prise, then turned his eyes away again as if he restrained 
himself, and said, in a subdued tone ; — 


14 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ I would rather you had haggled about the price.* 

“I don’t hear”— said the other, turning his ear. 

The Doctor waved his hand: — 

“Put that up, if you please.” 

The young stranger was disconcerted. He remained 
liient for a moment, wearing a look of impatient embar 
rassment. He still extended the piece, turning it ovei 
and over with his thumb-nail as it lay on his fingers. 

“ You don’t know me. Doctor,” he said. He got an¬ 
other cruel answer. 

“ We’re getting acquainted,” replied the physician. 

The victim of the sarcasm bit his lip, and protested, by 
an unconscious, sidewise jerk of the chin: — 

“ I wish you’d ” — and he turned the coin again. 

The physician dropped an eagle’s stare on the gold. 

“ I don’t practise medicine on those principles.” 

“But, Doctor,” insisted the other, appeasingly, “you 
can make an exception if you wUl. Reasons are better 
than rules, my old professor used to say. I am here 
without friends, or letters, or credentials of any sort; this 
is the only recommendation I can offer.” 

“ Don’t recommend you at all; anybody can do that.” 

The stranger breathed a sigh of overtasked patience, 
smiled with a baffled air, seemed once or twice about to 
speak, but doubtful what to say, and let his hand sink. 

“ WeU, Doctor,”-—he rested his elbow on his knee, 
gave the piece one more turn over, and tried to draw the 
physician’s eye by a look of boyish pleasantness, — “I’ll 
not ask you to take pay in advance, but I wiU ask you tc 
take care of this money for me. Suppose I should lose 
it, or have it stolen from me, or Doctor, it would be a 
real comfort to me if you would.” 

“I can’t help that. I shall treat your wife, and then 
<»end in my bill.” The Doctor folded arms and appeared 


A YOUNG STRANGER. 


15 


to give attention to his driver. But at the same time he 
asked: — 

“ Not subject to epilepsy, eh?” 

‘‘No, sir!” The indignant shortness of the retort 
drew no sign of attention from the Doctor; he was silently 
asking himself what this nonsense meant. Was it drink, 
or gambling, or a confidence game ? Or was it only vanity, 
or a mistake of inexperience ? He turned his head unex¬ 
pectedly, and gave the stranger’s facial lines a quick, 
thorough examination. It startled them from a look of 
troubled meditation. The physician as quickly turned 

way again. 

“ Doctor,” began the other, but added no more. 

The physician was silent. He turned the matter over 
once more in his mind. The proposal was absurdly unbusi 
ness-like. That his part in it might look ungenerous was 
nothing; so his actions were right, he rather liked them 
to bear a hideous aspect: that was his war-paint. There 
was that in the stranger’s attitude that agreed fairly with 
his own theories of living. A fear of debt, for instance * 
if that was genuine it was good; and, beyond and better 
than that, a fear of money. He began to be more favor 
ably impressed. 

“ Give it to me,” he said, frowning; “ mark you, this 
is your way,”—he dropped the gold into his vest-pocket, 
— “it isn’t mine.” 

The young man laughed with visible relief, and rubbed 
his knee with his somewhat too delicate hand. The 
Doctor examined him again with a milder glance. 

“ I suppose you think you’ve got the principles of life 
all right, don’t you ? ” 

“Yes, I do,” '^.plied the other, taking his turn al 
olding arms. 


16 


DR. SEVIER. 


“H-m-m! I dare say you do. Wliat you lack is lh« 
practice.” The Doctor sealed his utterance with a 
nod. 

The young man showed amusement; more, it may be, 
than he felt, and presently pointed out his lodging-place. 

“ Here, on this side; Number 40; ” and they alighted 


ms wnra. 


17 


CHAPTER m. 

HIS WIFE. 

I N former times the presence in New Orleans, during 
the cooler half of the year, of large numbers of mer¬ 
cantile men from all parts of the world, who did not accept 
the fever-plagued city as their permanent residence, made 
much business for the renters of furnished apartments. 
At the same time there was a class of persons whose resi¬ 
dence was permanent, and to whom this letting of rooms 
fell by an easy and natural gravitation; and the most 
respectable and comfortablf^ rented rooms of which the 
city could boast were those rhamhres garnies in Custom¬ 
house and Bienville streets, kept by worthy free or freed 
mulatto or quadroon women 
In 1856 the gala days o* this half-caste people were 
quite over. Difference was made between virtue and vice, 
and the famous quadr oon balls were shunned by those 
who aspired to respectability, whether their whiteness was 
nature or only toilet powder. Generations of domestic 
service under ladies of Gallic blood had brought many of 
them to a supreme pitch of excellence as housekeepers. 
In many cases money had been inherited; in other cases 
it had been saved up. That Latin feminine ability to 
hold an awkward position with impregnable serenity, and, 
lik 3 the yellow Mississippi, to give back no reflection from 
the overhanging sky, emphasized this superior fitness. 
That bright, womanly business ability that comes of the 
same blood added again to theii excellence. Not to be 


18 


DE. SEVIEK. 


home itself, rothing could be more like it than were th« 
apartments let by Madame C6cile, or Madame Sophie, or 
Madame Athalie, or Madame Polyx^ne, or whatever the 
name might be. 

It was in one of these houses, that presented its dnU 
hrick front directly upon the sidewalk of Custom-house 
street, with the unfailing little square sign of Chambres d 
louer (Rooms to let), dangling by a string from the over¬ 
hanging balcony and twirling in the breeze, that the sick 
wife lay. A waiting slave-girl opened the door as the 
two men approached it, and both of them went directly 
upstairs and into a large, airy room. On a high, finely 
carved, and heavily hung mahogany bed, to which the 
remaining furniture corresponded in ancient style and 
massiveness, was stretched the form of a pale, sweet¬ 
faced little woman. 

The proprietress of the house was sitting beside the 
bed,— a quadroon of good, kind face, forty-five years old 
or so, tall and broad. She rose and responded to the 
Doctor’s silent bow with that pretty dignity of greeting 
which goes with all French blood, and remained standing. 
The invalid stirred. 

The physician came forward to the bedside. The 
patient could not have been much over nineteen years of 
age. Her face was very pleasing ; a trifle slender in out¬ 
line ; the brows somewhat square, not wide; the mouth 
small. She would not have been called beautiful, even 
in health, by those who lay stress on correctness of 
outlines. But she had one thing that to some is better. 
Whether it was in the dark blue eyes that were lifted 
to the Doctor’s with a l)ok which changed rapidly 
from inquiry to confidence, Or in the fine, scarcely 
perceptible strands of pale-brown hair that played about 
her temples, he did not make out; but, for one cause 


ms WIFE. 


19 


or anotlier, her face was of that kind which almost 
any one has seen once or twice, and no one has seen 
often, — that seems to give out a soft, but veritable, 
light. 

She was very weak. Her eyes quickly dropped away 
from his, and turned wearily, but peacefully, to those of 
her husband. 

The Doctor spoke to her. His greeting and gentle 
inquiry were full of a soothing quality that was new to 
the young man. His long fingers moved twice or thrice 
softly across her brow, pushing back the thin, waving 
strands, and then he sat down in a chair, continuing hia 
kind, direct questions. The answers were all bad. 

He turned his glance to the quadroon; she understood 
It; the patient was seriously ill. The nurse responded 
with a quiet look of comprehension. At the same time 
the Doctor disguised from the young strangers this inter 
change of meanings by an audible question to the quadroon 

“ Have I ever met you before?” 

“ No, seh.” 

“ What is your name ? ” 

“ Zdnobie.” 

“ Madame Zenobia,” softly whispered the invalid, 
turning her eyes, with a glimmer of feeble pleasantry, 
first to the quadroon and then to her husband. 

The physician smiled at her an instant, and then gave 
a few concise directions to the quadroon. “Get me”— 
thus and so. 

The woman went and came. She was a superior nurse, 
like so many of her race. So obvious, indeed, was this, 
that when she gently pressed the young husband an inch 
or two aside, and murmured that “de doctah ” wanted him 
to “ go h-out,” he left the room, although he knew th« 
physician had not so indicated. 


DR. gEVIER. 


By-and-by he returned, but only at her beckon, and 
remained at the bedside while Madame Z4nobie led the 
Doctor into another room to write his prescription. 

“Who are these people?” asked the physician, in an 
undertone, looking up at the quadroon, and pausing with 
the prescription half torn ofiP. 

She shrugged her large shoulders and smiled per¬ 
plexedly. 

“Mizzez — Reechin?” The tone was one of query 
rather than assertion. “Dey sesso,” she added. 

She might nurse the lady like a mother, but she was 
not going to be responsible for the genuineness of a 
stranger’s name. 

“ Where are they from?” 

“I dunno?—Some pless? — I newa yeh dat nem 
biffo?” 

She made a timid attempt at some word ending in 
“ walk,” and smiled, ready to accept possible ridicule. 

“ Milwaukee?” asked the Doctor. 

She lifted her palm, smiled brightly, pushed him gently 
with the tip of one finger, and nodded. He had hit the 
nail on the head. 

“What business is he in?” 

The questioner arose. 

She cast a sidelong glance at him with a slight enlarge 
ment of her eyes, and, compressing her lips, gave her 
head a little, decided shake. The young man was not 
employed. 

“ And has no money either, I suppose,” said the physi¬ 
cian, as they started again toward the sick-room. 

She shrugged again and smiled; but it came to hei 
mind that the Doctor might be considering his own in 
terests, and she added, in a whisper: — 

“ Dey pay me.” 


HIS WITE. 


21 


She changed places with the husband, and the physi¬ 
cian and he passed down the stairs together in silence 

“Well, Doctorsaid the young man, as he stood, 
prescription in hand, before the carriage-door. 

“Well,” responded the physician, “you should have 
called me sooner.” 

The look of agony that came into the stranger’s face 
caused the Doctor instantly to repent his hard speech. 

“You don’t mean” — exclaimed the husband. 

“No, no; I don’t think it’s too late. Get that 
prescription filled and give it to Mrs.-” 

“ Richling,” said the young man. 

“ Let her have perfect quiet,” continued the Doctor. 
“ I shall be back this evening.” 

And when he returned she had improved. 

She was better again the next day, and the next; but 
on the fourth she was in a very critical state. She lay 
quite silent during the Doctor’s visit, until he, thinking 
he read in her eyes a wish to say something to him alone, 
sent her husband and the quadroon out of the room on 
separate errands at the same moment. And immedi¬ 
ately she exclaimed: — 

“ Doctor, save my life I You mustn’t let me die ! Save 
me, for my husband’s sake ! To lose all he’s lost for me, 
and then to lose me too—save me, Doctor I save me I ” 

“I’m going to do it I” said he. “You shall get 
well! ” 

And what with his skill and her endurance it turned 
out so. 


32 


DR. 8EVIEB. 


CHAPTER IV. 


CONVAI.ESCENCE AND ACQUAINTANCE. 

MAN’S clothing is his defence ; but with a womaa 



all dress is adornment. Nature decrees it; adorn¬ 
ment is her instinctive delight. And, above all, the 
adorning of a bride; it brings out so charmingly the 
meaning of the thing. Therein centres the gay consent 
of all mankind and womankind to an innocent, sweet 
apostasy from the ranks of both. The value of living — 
which is loving ; the sacredest wonders of life ; all that is 
fairest and of best delight in thought, in feeling, yea, in 
substance, — all are apprehended under the floral crown 
and hymeneal veil. So, when at length one day Mrs. 
Richling said, “ Madame Z4nobie, don’t you think I 
might sit up ? ” it would have been absurd to doubt the 
quadroon’s willingness to assist her in dressing. True, 
here was neither wreath nor veil, but here was very young 
wifehood, and its re-attiring would be like a proclama¬ 
tion of victory over the malady that had striven to put 
two hearts asunder. Her willingness could hardly be 
doubted, though she smiled irresponsibly, and said : — 

“If you thing”— She spread her eyes and elbows 
suddenly in the manner of a crab, with palms turned 
upward and thumbs outstretched — “Well I ” — and so 
dropped them. 

“You don’t want wait till de doctah cornin’?” she 
asked. 

“ I don’t think he’s coming ; it’s after bis time.” 


OONVALESCENOE AND lOQUAINTAHOB. 


“Yass?” 

The woman was silent a moment, and then threw up 
one hand again, with the forefinger lifted alertly forward. 

“ T make a lill fi’ biffo.” 

She made a fire. Then she helped the convalescent to 
put on a few loose drapings. She made no concealment 
of the enjoyment it gave her, though her words were few, 
and generally were answers to questions; and when at 
length she brought from the wardrobe, pretending not to 
notice her mistake, a loose and much too ample robe of 
woollen and silken stuffs to go over all, she moved as 
though she trod on holy ground, and distinctly felt, her¬ 
self, the thrill with which the convalescent, her young 
eyes beaming their assent, let her arms into the big 
sleeves, and drew about her small form the soft folds of 
her husband’s morning-gown. 

“ He goin’ to fine that droll,” said the quadroon. 

The wife’s face confessed her pleasure. 

“ It’s as much mine as his,” she said. 

“Is you mek dat?” asked the nurse, as she drew its 
silken cord about the convalescent’s waist. 

“Yes. Don’t draw it tight; leave it loose — so; but 
you can tie the knot tight. That will do ; there I ” She 
smiled broadly. “Don’t tie me in as if you were tying 
me in forever.” 

Madame Z4nobie understood perfectly, and, smiling fn 
response, did tie it as if she were tying her in forever. 

Half an hour or so later the quadroon, being — it may 
have been by chance — at the street door, ushered in a 
person who simply bowed in silence. 

But as he put one foot on the stair he paused, and, 
bending a severe gaze upon her, asked : — 

“ Why do you smile ? ” 

She folde<] her bands limply on her bosom, .and 


24 


DB. SBYISB. 


drawing a cheek and shoulder toward each other) 
plied: — 

“Nuttin’ 

The questioner’s severity darkened. 

“ Why do you smile at nothing? ” 

She laid the tips of her fingers upon her ips to compos f 
them. 

“ You din come in you’ carridge. She goin’ to thing 
’tis Mich4 Reechin.” The smile forced its way through 
her fingers. The visitor turned in quiet disdain and went 
upstaii-8, she following. 

At the top he let her pass. She led the way and, 
softly pushing open the chamber-door, entered noise¬ 
lessly, turned, and, as the other stepped across the 
threshold, nestled her hands one on the other at her waist, 
shrank inward with a sweet smile, and waved one palm to¬ 
ward the huge, blue-hung mahogany four-poster, — empty. 

The visitor gave a slight double nod and moved on 
across the carpet. Before a small coal fire, in a grate too 
wide for it, stood a broad, cushioned rocking-chair, with 
the corner of a pillow showing over its top. The visitor 
went on around it. The girlish form lay in it, with 
eyes closed, very still; but his professional glance quickly 
detected the false pretence of slumber. A slippered foot 
was still slightly reached out beyond the bright colors of 
the long gown, and toward the brazen edge of the hearth- 
pan, as though the owner had been touching her tiptoe 
against it to keep the chair in gentle motion. One cheek 
was on the pillow; down the other curled a few light 
strands of hair that had escaped from her brow. 

Thus for an instant. Then a smile began to wreath 
about the corner of her lips; she faintly stirred, opened 
her eyes — and lo! Dr. Sevier, motionless, tranquil, and 
grave. 


OONVALESOENOJE AND ACQUAINT ANOB. 


25 


“O Doctor!” The blood surged into her face and 
down upon her neck. She put her hands over her eyes, 
and her face into the pillow. “O Doctor!” — rising 
to a sitting posture, — “I thought, of course, it was 
say husband.” 

The Doctor replied while she was speaking: — 

“My carriage broke down.” He drew a chair toward 
the fireplace, and asked, with his face toward the dying 
fire: — 

“ How are you feeling to-day, madam, — stronger?” 

“ Yes ; I can almost say Tm well.” The blush was stiD 
on her face as he turned to receive her answer, but she 
smiled with a bright courageousness that secretly amused 
and pleased him. “I thank you. Doctor, for my recov¬ 
ery ; I certainly should thank you.” Her face lighted up 
with that soft radiance which was its best quality, and 
her smile became half introspective as her eyes dropped 
from his, and followed her outstretched hand as it re¬ 
arranged the farther edges of the dressing-gown one upon 
another. 

“If you will take better care of yourself hereafter, 
madam,” responded the Doctor, thumping and brus>\ing 
from his knee some specks of mud that he may have got 
when his carriage broke down, “ I will thank you. 
But” — brush — brush — “I — doubt it.” 

“Do you think you should?” she asked, leaning for 
ward frcmi the back of the great chair and letting her 
wrists drop over the front of its broad arms. 

“ I do,” said the Doctor, kindly. “ Why shouldn't I? 
This present attack was by your own fault.” While he 
spoke he was looking into her eyes, contracted at their 
comers by her slight smile. The face was one of those 
that show not merely tliat the world is all unknown to 
them, but that it always will bo so. It beamed with in- 


26 


DK. 8EY1EB. 


quisitive intelligence, and yet had the innocence almost oi 
infancy. The Doctor made a discovery ; that it was this 
that made her beautiful. “ She is beautiful,” he insisted 
to himself when his critical faculty dissented. 

“ You needn’t doubt me. Doctor. I’ll try my best tc 
take care. Why, of course I will, — for John’s sake.” 
She looked up into his face from the tassel she was twist 
ing around her finger, touching the floor with her slippers’ 
toe and faintly rocking. 

“Yes, there’s a chance there,” replied the grave man, 
seemingly not overmuch pleased ; “I dare say everything 
you do or leave undone is for his sake.” 

The little wife betrayed for a moment a pained per¬ 
plexity, and then exclaimed: — 

“Well, of course! ” and waited his answer with bright 
eyes. 

“ I have known women to think of their own sakes,* 
was the response. 

She laughed, and with unprecedented sparkle re¬ 
plied : — 

“ 'Why, whatever’s his sake is my sake. I don’t see the 
difference. Yes, I see, of course, how there might be a 
difference; but I don’t see how a woman ” — She 
ceased, still smiling, and, dropping her eyes to her hands, 
slowly stroked one wrist and palm with the tassel of her 
husband’s robe. 

The Doctor rose, turned his back to the mantel -piece, 
and looked down upon her. He thought of the grettit, 
wide world; its thorny ways, its deserts, its bitter waters, 
its unrighteousness, its self-seeking greeds, its weak¬ 
nesses, its under and over reaching, its unfaithfulness ; and 
then again of this — child, thrust all at once a thousand 
miles into \t, with never — so far as he could see — an 
bnpl^ynent, a weapon, a sense of danger, or a refuge' 


OONVALE80ENOB AJfO) ACQUAINTANOB. 


27 


frell pleased with herself, as it seemed, lifted up into the 
bliss of self-obliterating wifehood, and resting in her hus¬ 
band with such an assurance of safety and happiness as a 
saint might pray for grace to show to Heaven itself. He 
stood silent, feeling too grim to speak, and presently Mrs 
Richling looked up with a sudden liveliness of eye and a 
smile that was half apology and half persistence. 

“Yes, Doctor, I’m going to take care of myself.” 

“ Mrs. Richling, is your father a man of fortune?” 

“My father is not living,” said she, gravely. “He 
died two years ago. He was the pastor of a small church. 
No, sir; he had nothing but his small salary, except that 
for some years he taught a few scholars. He taught 
me.” She brightened up again. “ I never had any 
other teacher.” 

The Doctor folded his hands behind him and gazed 
abstractedly through the upper sash of the large French 
windows. The street-door was heard to open. 

“ There’s John,” said the convalescent, quickly, and 
the next moment her husband entered. A tired look 
vanished from his face as he saw the Doctor. He hurried 
to grasp his hand, then turned and kissed his wife. The 
physician took up his hat. 

“ Doctor,” said the wife, holding the hand he gave her, 
and looking up playfully, with her cheek against the chair- 
back, “you surely didn’t suspect me of being a rich girl, 
did you ? ” 

“Not at all, madam.” His emphasis was so pro¬ 
nounced that the husband laughed. 

“ There’s one comfort in the opposite condition, Doc¬ 
tor,” said the young man. 

“Yes?” 

“ Why, yes ; you see, it requires no explanation.** 


28 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ Yes, it does,” said the physician ; “ it is just as bind¬ 
ing on people to show good cause why they are poor as it 
is to show good cause why they’re rich. Good-day, 
madam.” The two men went out together. His word 
would have been good-by, bat for the fear of fresh 
ackncwledgmente. 


HAKD QUESTIONS. 


29 


CHAPTER V. 

HARD QUESTIONS. 

D r. SEVIER had a simple abhorrence of the expres¬ 
sion of personal sentiment in words. Nothing else 
seemed to him so utterly hollow as the attempt to indicate 
by speech a regard or affection which was not already 
demonstrated in behavior. So far did he keep himself 
aloof from insincerity that he had barely room enough 
left to be candid. 

“ I need not see your wife any more,” he said, as he 
went down the stairs with the young husband at his elbow; 
and the young man had learned him well enough not to 
oppress him with formal thanks, whatever might have 
been said or omitted upstairs. 

Madame Z4nobie contrived to be near enough, as they 
reached the lower floor, to come in for a share of the 
meagre adieu. She gave her hand with a dainty grace 
and a bow that might have been imported from Paris. 

Dr. Sevier paused on the front step, half turned toward 
the open door where the husband still tarried. That was 
not speech; it was scarcely action; but the young man 
understood it and was silent. In truth, the Doctor him¬ 
self felt a pang in this sort of farewell. A physician’s 
way through the world is paved, T have heard one say, 
with these broken bits of other’s lives, of all colors and 
all degrees of beauty. In his reminiscences, when he can 
do no better, he gathers them up, and, turning them over 
4 nd over in the darkened chamber of his retrospection. 


sc 


DB« fiBVXEiK* 


*^ees patterns of delight lit up by the softened rays of by¬ 
gone time. But even this renews the pain of separation, 
and Dr. Sevier felt, right here at this door-step, that, if 
this was to be the last of the Richlings, he would feel the 
twinge of parting every time they came up again in hie 
memory. 

He looked at the house opposite, — where there was 
really nothing to look at, — and at a woman who happened 
to be passing, and who was only like a thousand others 
with whom he had nothing to do. 

“ Richling,” he said, “ what brings you to New Orleans, 
any way ? ” 

Richling leaned his cheek against the door-post. 

“ Simply seeking my fortune. Doctor.” 

“ Do you think it is here?” 

“ I’m pretty sure it is ; the world owes me a living,” 

The Doctor looked up. 

“ When did you get the world in your debt? ” 

Richling lifted his head pleasantly, and let one foot 
iown a step. 

“ It owes me a chance to earn a living, doesn’t it? ” 

“I dare say,” replied the other; “that’s what it gen¬ 
erally owes.” 

“ That’s all I ask of it,” said Richling; “ if it will let 
us alone we’ll let it alone.” 

“You’ve no right to allow either,” said the physician 
“ No, sir; no,” he insisted, as the young man looked in 
credulous. There was a pause. “ Have you any capital?' 
aaked the Doctor. 

“ Capital! No,” — with a low laugh. 

“ But surely you have something to ” — 

“ Oh, yes, — a little ! ” 

The Doctor marked the southern “Oh.” There is no 
“ O ” in Milwaukee. 



HARD QUESTIONS. 


31 


“You don’t find as many vacancies as you expected to 
•ee, I suppose — h-m-m ? ” 

There was an under-glow of feeling in the young man’s 
tone as he replied: — 

“ I was misinformed.” 

“Well,” said the Doctor, staring down-street, “you’ll 
find something. What can you do?” 

“Do? Oh, I’m willing to do anything I ” 

Dr. Sevier turned his gaze slowly, with a shade of dis¬ 
appointment in it. Richling rallied to his defences. 

“ I think I could make a good book-keeper, or corre¬ 
spondent, or cashier, or any such”— 

The Doctor interrupted, with the back of his head 
toward his listener, looking this time up the street, 
riverward: — 

“ Yes ; — or a shoe, — or a barrel, — h-m-m ? ” 

Richling bent forward with the frown of defective hear¬ 
ing, and the physician raised his voice : — 

“ Or a cart-wheel — or a coat?” 

“ I can make a living,” rejoined the other, with a need 
lessly resentful-heroic manner, that was lost, or seemed to 
oe, on the physician. 

“Richling,” — the Doctor suddenly faced around and 
fixed a kindly severe glance on him, — “ why didn’t you 
bring letters ? ” 

“ Why,” — the young man stopped, looked at his feet, 
and distinctly blushed. “ I think,” he stammered— “ it 
seems to me” — he looked up with a faltering eye — 
“don’t you think — I think a man ought to be able to 
recommend /iimseZ/.” 

The Doctor’s gaze remained so fixed that the self- 
recommended man could not endure it silently. 

“ I think so,” he said, looking down again and swing* 


32 


DS. SEVIER. 


ing ilia foot Suddenly he brightened. “Doctor, isn’t 
this your carriage coming ? ” 

“Yes; I told the boy to drive by here when it was 
mended, and he might find me.” The vehicle drew up 
and stopped. “ Still, Richling,” the physician continued, 
IS he stepped toward it, “ you had better get a letter or 
two, yet; you might need them.” 

The door of the carriage clapped to. There seemed a 
‘ touch of vexation in the sound. Richling, too, closed 
his door, but in the soft way of one in troubled medita¬ 
tion. Was this a proper farewell? The thought came 
to both men. 

“ Stop a minute ! ” said Dr, Sevier to his driver. He 
leaned out a little at the side of the carriage and looked 
back. “ Never mind; he has gone in.” 

The young husband went upstairs slowly and heavily, 
more slowly and heavily than might be explained by his 
all-day unsuccessful tramp after employment. His wife 
still rested in the rocking-chair. He stood against it, 
and she took his hand and stroked it. 

“Tired?” she asked, looking up at him. He gazed 
into the languishing fire. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re not discouraged, are you?” 

“Discouraged? N-no. And yet,” he said, slowly 
shaking his head, “I can’t see why I don’t find some¬ 
thing to do.” 

“ It’s because you don’t hunt for it,” said the wife. 

He turned upon her with flashing countenance only to 
meet her laugh, and to have his head pulled down to her 
Ups. lie dropped into the seat left by the physician 
laid his head back in his knit hands, and crossed his feet 
under the chair. 

“ John, I do like Dr. Sevier.’ 


bjleld questions. 


3d 


*‘ Why ? ” The questioner looked at the ceiling. 

“ Why, don’t you like him?” asked the wife, and, as 
John smiled, she added, “You know you like him.” 

The husband grasped the poker in both hands, dropped 
his elbows upon his knees, and began touching the fire, 
saying slowly: — 

“ 1 believe the Doctor thinks I’m a fool.” 

“That’s nothing,” said the little wife; “that’s only 
because you married me.” 

The poker stopped rattling between the grate-bars ; the 
husband looked at the wife. Her eyes, though turned 
partly away, betrayed their mischief. There was a 
deadly pause; then a rush to the assault, a shower of 
Cupid’s arrows, a quick surrender. 

But we refrain. Since ever the woild began it is 
Love’s real, not his sham, battles that are worth the 
tellixig. 


DK. SEYIEB. 


a4 


CHAPTER VI. 


NESTINQ. 


FORTNIGHT passed. What with calls on hii 



^ ^ private skill, and appeals to his public zeal, Dr. 
8evter was always loaded like a dromedary. Just now he 
was much occupied with the affairs of the great American 
people. For all he was the furthest remove from a mere 
party contestant or spoilsman, neither his righteous pug¬ 
nacity nor his human sympathy would allow him to ‘‘let 
politics alone.” Often across this preoccupation there 
flitted a thought of the Richlings. 

At length one day he saw them. He had been called 
by a patient, lodging near Madame Z4nobie’s house. The 
proximity of the young couple occurred to him at once, 
but he instantly realized the extreme poverty of the chance 
that he should see them. To increase the improbability, 
the short afternoon was near its close, — an hour when 
people generally were sitting at dinner. 

But what a coquette is that same chance! As he waa 
driving up at the sidewalk’s edge before his patient’s door, 
the Richlings came out of theirs, the husband talking with 
animation, and the wife, all sunshine, skipping up to his 
side, and taking his arm with both hands, and attending 
eagerly to his words. 

“Heels!” muttered the Doctor to himself, for the 
sound of IVIis. Richling’s gaiters betrayed that fact 
Heels were an innovation still new enough to rouse the 
resentment of masculine conservatism. But for them 


NE8TIN0. 




sne would have pleased his sight entirely. Bonnets, for 
years microscopic, had again become visible, and her 
girlish face was prettily set in one whose flowers and 
ribbon, just joyous and no more, were reflected again in 
the double-skirted silk barege; while the dark mantilla that 
drooped away from the broad lace collar, shading, with¬ 
out hiding, her “ Parodi ” waist, seemed made for that 
very street of heavy-grated archways, iron-railed balconies, 
and high lattices. The Doctor even accepted patiently 
the free northern step, which is commonly so repugnant to 
the southern eye. 

A heightened gladness flashed into the faces of the 
two young people as they descried the physician. 

“ Good-afternoon,” they said, advancing. 

“Good-evening,” responded the Doctor, and shook 
hands with each. The meeting was an emphatic pleasure 
to him. He quite forgot the young man’s lack of creden 
tials. 

“Out taking the air?” he asked. 

“ Looking about,” said the husband. 

“ Looking up new quarters,” said the wife, knitting 
hei Angers about her husband’s elbow and drawing closer 
to it. 

“ Were you not comfortable?” 

“ Yes ; but the rooms are larger than we need.” 

“ Ah! ” said the Doctor; and there the conversation 
sank. There was no topic suited to so fleeting a moment, 
and when they had smiled all round again Dr. Sevier 
lifted his hat. Ah, yes, there was one thing. 

“Have you found work?” asked the Doctor of Rich- 
ling 

The wife glanced up for an instant inb) her husband’s 
face, and then down again. 

“ No,” said Richling, “ a^t yet. If you should hear 


36 


DK. SEVIER. 


of anything, Doctor ”— He remembered the Doctoral 
word about letterg, stopped suddenly, and seemed as if 
he might even withdraw the request; but the Doctor 
said: — 

“ I will; I will let you know.” He gave his hand to- 
Uichling. It was on his lips to add: “And should you 
need,” etc.; but there was the wife at the husband’s side. 
So he said no more. The pair bowed their cheerful 
thanks; but beside the cheer, or behind it, in the hus¬ 
band’s face, was there not the look of one who feels the 
odds against him? And yet, while the two men’s hands 
still held each other, the look vanished, and the young 
man’s light grasp had such firmness in it that, for this 
cause also, the Doctor withheld his patronizing utter¬ 
ance. He believed he would himself have resented it had 
he been in Rich ling’s place. 

The young pair passed on, and that night, as Dr. 
Sevier sat at his fireside, an uncompanioned widower, he 
saw again the young wife look quickly up into her hus¬ 
band’s face, and across that face flit and disappear its 
look of weary dismay, followed by the air of fresh 
courage with which the young couple had said good-by. 

“I wish I had spoken,” he thought to himself; “I 
wish I had made the offer.” 

And again: — 

“ I hope he didn’t tell her what I said about the letters 
Not but I was right, but it’ll only wound her.” 

But Richling had told her ; he always “ told her every- 
/hing; ” she could not possibly have magnified wifeho^ 
more, in her way, than he did in his. May be both ways 
were faulty; but they were extravagantly, youthfully 
confident that they were not. 

Unknown to Dr. Seyier, the Biohlings had returned 


NESTING. 


37 


from their search unsuccessful. Finding prices too much 
alike in Custom-house street they turned into Burgundy. 
From Burgundy they passed into Du Maine. As they 
went, notwithstanding disappointments, their mood grew 
gay and gayer. Everything that met the eye Wi;3 quaint 
and droll to them: men, women, things, places,— all 
were more or less outlandish. The grotesqueness of the 
African, and especially the French-tongued African, was 
to Mrs. Richling particularly irresistible. Multiplying 
upon each and all of these things was the ludicrousness 
of the pecuniary strait that brought themselves and these 
things into contact. Everything turned to fun. 

Mrs. Richling’s mirthful mood prompted her by and 
by to begin letting into her inquiries and comments 
covert double meanings, intended for her husband’s 
private understanding. Thus they crossed Bourbon 
street. 

About there their mirth reached a climax; it was in a 
small house, a sad, single-story thing, cowering between 
two high buildings, its eaves, four or five feet deep, over¬ 
shadowing its one street door and window. 

“ Looks like a shade for weak eyes,” said the wife. 

They had debated whether they should enter it or not. 
He thought no, she thought yes ; but he would not insist 
and she would not insist; she wished him to do as he 
thought best, and he wished her to do as she thought 
best, and they had made two or three false starts and 
retreats before they got inside. But they were in there 
at length, and busily engaged inquiring into the availa¬ 
bility of a small, lace-curtained, front room, when Rich- 
ling took his wife so completely off her guard ty 
addressing her as “Madam,” in the tone and manner oi 
Dr. Sevier, that she laughed in the face of the house¬ 
holder, who had been trying to talk English with a French 




DR. SEVIER. 


accent and a hare-lip, and they fled with haste to the 
sidewalk and around the corner, where they could smile 
and smile without being villains. 

“ We must stop this,” said the wife, blushing. “ We 
must stop it. We’re attracting attention.” 

And this was true at least as to one ragamuffin, who 
stood on a neighboring corner staring at them. Yet there 
is no telling to what higher pitch their humor might have 
carried them if Mrs. Richling had not been weighted 
down by the constant necessity of correcting her hus¬ 
band’s statement of their wants. This she could do, 
because his exactions were all in the direction of hei 
comfort. 

“ But, John,” she would say each time as they returned 
to the street and resumed their quest, “ those things cost; 
you can’t afford them, can you ? ” 

“ Why, you can’t be comfortable without them,” he 
would answer. 

“But that’s not the question, John. We must take 
cheaper lodgings, mustn’t we?” 

Then John would be silent, and by littles their gayety 
would rise again. 

One landlady was so good-looking, so manifestly and 
entirely Caucasian, so melodious of voice, and so modest 
in her account of the rooms she showed, that Mrs. Rich- 
ling was captivated. The back room on the second floor, 
overlooking the inner court and numerous low roofs 
beyond, was suitable and cheap. 

“ Yes,” said the sweet proprietress, turning to Richling, 
who hung in doubt whether it was quite good enough, 
“yesseh, I think you be pretty well in that room yeh.' 
Yesseh, I’m shoe you be verrie well; yesseh.” 

“ Can we get them at once? ” 


Yeh”—aa in yearn. 



NB8TINQ. 


39 


“Yes? At once? Yes? Oh, yes?” 

No downward inflections from her. 

“ Well,” —the wife looked at the husband; he nodded, 
— “ well, we’ll take it.” 

“Yes?” responded the landlady; “well?” leaning 
•gainst a bedpost and smiling with infantile diflSdence, 
“ you dunt want no ref’ence? ” 

“ No,” said John, generously, “ oh, no; we can trust 
each other that far, eh ? ” 

“Oh, yes?” replied the sweet creature; then sud¬ 
denly changing countenance, as though she remembered 
something. “ But daz de troub’ — de room not goin’ be 
vacate for free monf.” 

She stretched forth her open palms and smiled, with 
one arm still around the bedpost. 

“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Richling, the very statue of 
astonishment, “ you said just now we could have it at 
once! ” 

“ Dis room? OA, no; nod dis room.” 

“ I don’t see how I could have misunderstood you.” 

The landlady lifted her shoulders, smiled, and clasped 
her hands across each other under her throat. Then 
throwing them apart she said brightly : — 

“ No, I say at Madame La Rose. Me, my room is all 
fill’. At Madame La Rose, I say, I think you be pritty 
well. I’m shoe you be verrie well at Madame La Rose. 
I’m sorry. But you kin paz yondeh — ’tiz juz ad the 
cawneh? And I am shoe I think you be pritty well at 
Madame La Rose.” 

She kept up the repetition, though Mrs. Richling, 
Incensed, had turned her back, and Richling was saying 
good-day. 

“She did say the room was vacant I” exclaimed the 
little wife., as they reached the sidewalk. But the neii 


40 


DR. SEVIER. 


moment there came a quick twinkle from her eye, and, 
waving her husband to go cn without her, she said, “ You 
kin paz yondeh; at Madame La Rose I am shoe you be 
pritty sick.” Thereupon she took his arm, — making 
everybody stare and smile to see a lady and gentleman 
arm in arm by daylight, — and they went merrily on their 
way. 

The last place they stopped at was in Royal street. 
The entrance was bad. It was narrow e^en for those 
two. The walls were stained by dampness, and the smell 



of a totally undrained soil came 


The stairs ascended a few steps, came too near a low 
ceiling, and shot forward into cavernous gloom to find a 
second rising place farther on. But the rooms, when 
reached, were a tolerably pleasant disappointment, and 
the proprietress a person of reassuring amiability. 

She bestirred herself in an obliging way that was the 
most charming thing yet encountered. She gratified the 
young people every moment afresh with her readiness to 
understand or guess their English queries and remarks, 
hung her head archly when she had to explaiA away 
little objections, delivered her No sirs with gravity and 
her Yes sirs with bright eagerness, shook her head siowly 
with each negative announcement, and accompanied her 
afl^rmations with a gracious bow and a smile full of rice 
powder. 

She rendered everything so agreeable, indeed, that it 
almost seemed impolite to inquire narrowly into matters, 
and when the question of price had to come up it was 
really difficult to bring it forward, and Richling quite lost 
sight of the economic rules to which he tad silent y 
acceded in the Hue Du Maine. 

“And you will carpet the floor?” he asked, hovering 
off of the main issue. 


NESTING. 


41 


“Put coppit? Ah I cettainlee I ” she replied, with a 
lately bow and a wave of the hand toward Mrs. Richling, 
whom she Lad already given the same assurance. 

“ Yes,” responded the little wife, with a captivated 
smile, and nodded to her husband. 

“We want to get the decentest thing that is cheap,” he 
said, as the three stood close together in the middle o. 
the room. 

The landlady flushed. 

“ No, no, John,” said the wife, quickly, “ don’t you 
know what we said ? ” Then, turning to the proprietress, 
she hurried to add, “We want the cheapest thing that is 
decent.” 

But the landlady had not waited for the correction. 

“Zh'ssent! You want somesin diVsent!” She moved 
a step backward on the floor, scoured and smeared with 
brick-dust, her ire rising visibly at every heart-throb, and 
pointing her outward-turned open hand energetically 
downward, added: — 

“’Tis yeh!” She breathed hard. “ Jfais, no; you 
don’t voant somesin dissent. No 1 ” She leaned forward 
interogatively : “You want somesin tchip ? ” She threw 
both elbows to the one side, cast her spread hands off in 
the same direction, drew the cheek on that side down into 
the collar-bone, raised her eyebrows, and pushed her upper 
lip with her lower, scornfully. 

At that moment her ear caught the words of the wife’s ^ 
apologetic amendment. They gave her fresh wrath and 
new opportunity. For her new foe was a woman, and a 
woman trying to speak in defence of the husband against 
whose arm she clung. 

“ Ah-h-h I ” Her chin went up ; her eyes shot light¬ 
ning • she folded her arms fiercely, and drew herself to he; 


^2 


DB. SBVIBB. 


best height; and, as Richling’s eyes shtt back in rlsini 
indignation, cned: — 

“ Ziss pless? ’Tis not ze pless I Zis pless — is dissent 
pless I I am diss’nt woman, me I Fo' w^at you come in 
yeh?” 

“ My dear madam I My husband ” — 

“ Dass you’ uzban’? ” pointing at him. 

“ Yes I ” cried the two Richlings at once. 

The woman folded her arms again, turned half-aside, 
and, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, simply remarked, with 
an ecstatic smile : — 

“Humph I” and left the pair, red with exasperation, 
to find the street again through the darkening cave of the 
stairway. 

It was still early the next morning, when Richling en¬ 
tered his wife’s apartment with an air of brisk occupation. 
She was pinning her brooch at the bureau glass. 

“Mary,” he exclaimed, “ put something on and come 
see what I’ve found! The queerest, most romantic old 
thing in the city ; the most comfortable — and the cheap¬ 
est I Here, is this the wardrobe key ? To save time I’U 
get your bonnet.” 

“ No, no, no I ” cried the laughing wife, confronting 
him with sparkling eyes, and throwing herself before the 
wardrobe ; “ I can’t let you touch my bonnet! ” 

There is a limit, it seems, even to a wife’s subserviency. 

However, in a very short time afterward, by the femi¬ 
nine measure, they were out in the street, and people were 
again smiling at the pretty pair to see her arm in his, and 
she actually keeping step, ’Twas very funny. 

As they went John described his discovery : A pair ot 
huge, solid green gates immediately on the sidewalk, in 
the dull facade of a tall, red trick building with old 


NB8TINQ. 


4d 


carved vinework on its winder and door frames. Hinges 
a yard long on the gates; over the gates a semicircular 
grating of iron bars an inch in diameter; in one of these 
gates a wicket, and on the wicket a heavy, battered, highly 
burnished brass knocker. A short-legged, big-bodied, and 
very black slave to usher one through the wicket into a 
large, wide, paved corridor, where from the middle joist 
oveihead hung a great iron lantern. Big double doors at 
the far end, standing open, flanked with diamond-paned 
side-lights of colored glass, and with an arch at the same, 
fan-shaped, above. Beyond these doors and showing 
through them, a flagged court, bordered all around by a 
narrow, raised parterre under pomegranate and fruit-laden 
orange, and over-towered by vine-covered and latticed 
walls, from whose ragged eaves vagabond weeds laughed 
down upon the flowers of the parterre below, robbed of late 
and early suns. Stairs old fashioned, broad ; rooms, their 
choice of two; one looking down into the court, the other 
into the street; furniture faded, capacious ; ceilings high ; 
windows, each opening upon its own separate small bal¬ 
cony, where, instead of balustrades, was graceful iron 
scroll-work, centered by some long-dead owner’s monogram 
two feet in length ; and on the balcony next the division ’ 
wall, close to another on the adjoining property, a quarter 
circle of iron-work set like a blind-bridle, and armed with 
hideous prongs for house-breakers to get impaled on. 

“ AVhy, in there,” said Richling, softly, as they hurried 
in, “ we’ll be hid from the whole world, and the whole 
world from us.” 

The wife’s answer was only the upwaid glance of her 
blue eyes into his, and a faint smile. 

The place was all it had been described to be, and 
more, — except in one particular. 

“ And my husband tells me ” — The owner of said 


44 


DR. SEVIER. 


husband stood beside him, one foot a little in advance ot 
the other, her folded parasol hanging down the front of 
her skirt from her gloved hands, her eyes just returning 
to the landlady’s from an excursion around the ceiling, 
and her whole appearance as fresh as the pink flowers 
that nestled between her brow and the rim of its precious 
covering. She smiled as she began her speech, but not 
enough to spoil what she honestly believed to be a very 
business-like air and manner. John had quietly dropped 
out of the negotiations, and she felt herself put upon her 
mettle as his agent. “ And my husband tells me the price 
of this front room is ten dollars a month.” 

“ Munse? ” 

The respondent was a very white, corpulent woman, 
who constantly panted for breath, and was everywhere 
sinking down into chairs, with her limp, unfortified skirt 
dropping between her knees, and her hands pressed on 
them exhaustedly. 

“Munse?” She turned from husband to wife, and 
back again, a glance of alarmed inquiry. 

Mary tried her hand at French. 

“ Yes ; om, madame. Ten dollah the month —le mois.** 

Intelligence suddenly returned. Madame made a beau¬ 
tiful, silent O with her mouth and two others with her 
eyes. 

“Ah non I By munse? No, madame. Ah-hl im- 
possybl’ I By wick^ yes ; ten dollah de wick ! Ah ! ” 

She touched her bosom with the wide-spread fingers of 
one hand and threw them toward her hearers. 

The room-hunters got away, yet not so quickly but they 
heard behind and above them her scornful laugh, ad 
dressed to the walls of the empty room. 

A day or two later they secured an apartment, cheap, 
and — morally — decent; but otherwise — ah I 


DI8AFFEAKAN0B. 


45 


CHAPTER Vn. 

DISAPPEAJRANCE. 

I T was the year of a presidential campaign. The party 
that afterward rose to overwhelming power was, for 
the first time, able to put its candidate fairly abreast of 
his competitors. The South was all afire. Rising up or 
sitting down, coming or going, week-day or Sabbath-day, 
eating or drinking, marrying or burying, the talk was all 
of slavery, abolition, and a disrupted country. 

Dr. Sevier became totally absorbed in the issue. He 
was too unconventional a thinker ever to find himself in 
harmony with all the declarations of any party, and yet it 
was a necessity of his nature to be in the melee. He had 
his own array of facts, his own peculiar deductions; his 
own special charges of iniquity against this party and of 
criminal forbearance against that; his own startling po¬ 
litical economy ; his own theory of rights; his own inter¬ 
pretations of the Constitution; his own threats and 
warnings ; his own exhortations, and his own prophecies, 
of which one cannot say all have come true. But he 
poured them forth from the mighty heart of one wh(^ 
loved his country, and sat down with a sense of duty ful¬ 
filled and wiped his pale forehead while the band played 
a polka. 

It hardly need be added that he proposed to dispense 
with politicians, or that, when “ the boys ” presently 
counted him into their party team for campaign haran¬ 
guing, he let them clap the harness upon him and splashed 
along in the mud with an intention as pure as snew. 


46 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ Hurrah for ” — 

Whom it is no matter nOTf. It was not Fremont 
Buchanan won the race. Out went the lights, down came 
the platforms, rockets ceased to burst; it was of no use 
longer to “Wait for the wagon”; “Old Dan Tucker” 
got “ out of the way,” small boys were no longer fellow 
citizens, dissolution was postponed, and men began to 
have an eye single to the getting of money. 

A mercantile friend of Dr. Sevier had a vacant clerk¬ 
ship which it was necessary to fill. A bright recollection 
flashed across the Doctor’s memory. 

“ Narcisse I ” 

“ Yesseh I ” 

“Go to Number 40 Custom-house street and inquire 
for Mr. Fledgeling; or, if he isn’t in, for Mrs. Fledge 
— humph! Richling, I mean ; I” — 

Narcisse laughed aloud. 

“ Ha-ha-ha 1 daz de way, sometime’ I My hant she got 
a honcl’ — he says, once ’pon a time ” — 

“Nevermind! Go at once ! ” 

“ All a-ight, seh ! ” 

“ Give him this card ” — 

“Yesseh!” 

“These people” — 

“ Yesseh! ” 

“Well, wait till you get your errand, can’t you? 
These ” — 

“ Yesseh! ” 

“ These people want to see him.” 

“All a-ight, seh ! ” 

Narcisse threw open and jerked off a worsted jacket, 
took his coat down from a peg, transferred a snowy 
handkerchief from the breast-pocket of the jacket to that 
of the coat, felt in his pantaloons to be sure that he had 



DISAPPEARANCE. 


47 


his match-case and cigarettes, changed his shoes, got bis 
hat from a high nail by a little leap, and put it on a head 
as handsome as Apollo’s. 

“ Doctah Seveeah,” he said, “ in fact, I fine that « 
ve’y gen’lemany young man, that Mistoo Itchlin, weely, 
Doctah.” 

The Doctor murmured to himself from the letter he was 
writing. 

“Well, au ’e-uoi’, Doctah ; I’m goin’.” 

Out in the corridor he turned and jerked his chin up 
and curled his lip, brought a match and cigarette together 
in the lee of his hollowed hand, took one first, fond draw, 
and went down the stairs as if they were on fire. 

At Canal street he fell in with two noble fellows of his 
own circle, and the three went around by way of Exchange 
alley to get a glass of soda at McCloskey’s old down-town 
stand. His two friends were out of employment at the 
moment, — making him, consequently, the interesting 
figure in the trio as he inveighed against his master. 

“ Ah, phooh ! ” he said, indicating the end of his speech 
by dropping the stump of his cigarette into the sand on 
the fioorand softly spitting upon it, — “ Shylockde la rue 
Carondelet! ” — and then in English, not to lose the ad¬ 
miration of the Irish waiter: — 

“ He don’t want to haugment me I I din hass ’im, be¬ 
cause the ’lection. But you juz wait tiU dat firce of 
Jannawerry! ” 

The waiter swathed the zinc counter, and inquired why 
\arcisse did not make his demands at the present 
moment. 

“ W’y I don’t hass ’im now? Because w’en I hass *im 
he know’ he’s got to do it I You thing I’m goin’ to kill 
myseff workin’ ? ” 

Nobody said yes, and by and by he found himself ali>« 


^8 


DR. SEVIER. 


in the house of Madame Zenobie. The furniture wai 
being sold at auction, and the house was crowded with 
all sorts and colors of men and women. A huge side¬ 
board was up for sale as he entered, and the criei was 
crying: — 

“Faw-ty-fi’ doUahl faw-ty-fi’ doUah, ladies an’ genty- 
men I On’y faw-ty-fi’ doUah fo’ thad magniffyzan side- 
bode ! Quarante-cinque piastres^ seulement, messieurs I 
Les knobs vaut Men cette prixl Gentymen, de knobs is 
worse de money! Ladies, if you don’ stop dat talkin’, I 
will not sell one thing mo’ I Et quarante cinque piastres 
-faw-ty-fi’ dollah ” — 

“ Fifty ! ” cried Narcisse, who had not owned that much 
at one time since his father was a constable; realizing 
which fact, he slipped away upstairs and found Madame 
Zenobie half crazed at the slaughter of her assets. 

She sat in a chair against the wall of the room the Rich- 
lings had occupied, a spectacle of agitated dejection. 
Here and there about the apartment, either motionless- in 
chairs, or moving noiselessly about, and pulling and push¬ 
ing softly this piece of furniture and that, were numerous 
vulture-like persons of either sex, waiting the up-coming 
of the auctioneer. Narcisse approached her briskly. 

“Well, Madame Zenobie!”—he spoke in French — 
“is it you who lives here? Don’t you remember me? 
What! No ? Tou don’t remember how I used to steal figs 
from you ? ” 

The vultures slowly turned their heads. Madame 
Zenobie looked at him in a dazed way. 

No, she did not remember. So many had robbed her 
— all her life. 

“ But you don’t look at me, Madame Zenobie. Don't 
you remember, for example, once pulling a little boy — as 
little as that — out of your fig-tree, and taking the half of 


DISAPPEARANCE. 


4d 

A shingle, split lengthwise, in your hand, and his noad 
under your arm, — swearing you would do it if you died 
for it, — and bending him across your knee,” — he began 
a vigorous but graceful movement of the right arm, which 
few members of our fallen race could fail to recognize, — 
“ and you don’t remember me, my old friend?” 

She looked up into the handsome face with a faint 
smile of affirmation. He laughed with delight. 

“The shingle was fAaf wide. Ah! Madame Z^nobie, 
you did it well I ” He softly smote the memorable spot, 
first with one hand and then with the other, shrinking for¬ 
ward spasmodically with each contact, and throwing utter 
woe into his countenance. The general company smiled. 
He suddenly put on great seriousness. 

“Madame Z4nobie, I hope your furniture is selling 
well ? ” He still spoke in French. 

She cast her eyes upward pleadingly, caught her breath, 
threw the back of her hand against her temple, and dashed 
it again to her lap, shaking her head. 

Narcisse was sorry. 

“ I have been doing what I could for you, downstairs, 
—running up the prices of things. I wish I could stay to 
do more, for the sake of old times. I came to see Mr. 
Richling, Madame Z4nobie ; is he in ? Dr. Sevier wants 
him.” 

Richling ? Why, the Richlings did not live there I The 
Doctor must know it. Wliy should she be made respon¬ 
sible for this mistake ? It was his oversight. They had 
moved long ago. Dr. Sevier had seen them looking for 
apartments. Wliere did they live now? Ah, me! shi 
could not tell. Did Mr. Richling owe the Doctor some¬ 
thing ? 

“Owe? Certainly not. The Doctor—on Uie con* 
trary ” — 


50 


DR. BEVIER. 


Ah ! wcV^, indeed, she didn’t know where they liv 3d, it 
(s true; but the fact was, Mr. Richling happened to be 
there just then ! — d~^*t’eure I He had come to get a few 
trifles left by his madame. 

Narcisse made instant search. Richling was not on the 
upper floor. He stepped to the landing and looked down 
There he went! 

“ Mistoo ’ItchlinI” 

Richling failed to hear. Sharper ears might have served 
him better. He passed out by the street door. Narcisse 
stopped the auction by the noise he made coming down¬ 
stairs after him. He had some trouble with the front 
door, — lost time there, but got out. 

Richling was turning a corner. Narcisse ran there and 
looked ; looked up — looked down — looked into every 
store and shop on either side of the way clear back to 
Canal street; crossed it, went back to the Doctor’s oflSce, 
and reported. If he omitted such details as having seen 
and then lost sight of the man he sought, it may have 
been in part from the Doctor’s indisposition to give him 
speaking license. The conclusion was simple : the Rich- 
lings could not be found. 

The months of winter passed. No sign of them. 

“They’ve gone back home,” the Doctor often said to 
himself. How much better that was than to stay where 
they had made a mistake in venturing, and become the 
nurslings of patronizing strangers I He gave his admi¬ 
ration free play, now that they were quite gone. True 
courage that Richling had — courage to retreat when re¬ 
treat is best! And his wife — ah 1 what.a reminder of — 
hush, memory I 

“Yes, they must have gone home ! ” The Doctor spoks 


DISAPPEARANCE. 


51 


very positively, because, after all, he was haunted by 
doubt. 

One spring morning he uttered a soft exclamation as he 
glanced at his office-slate. The first notice on it read: — 

Please call as soon as you can at number 292 St. Mary street, 
corner of Prytania. Lower corner — opposite the asylum. 

John Richlino. 

The place was far up in the newer part of the American 
quarter. The signature had the appearance as if the 
writer had begun to write some other name, and had 
Jianged it to Richliaig. 


DR. SEVIER. 


CHAFTER Vm. 


A QUESTION OF BOOK-KEEPINO. 

DAY or two after Narcisse had gone looking foi 



Richling at the house of Madame Z6nobie, he might 
have found him, had he known where to search, in 
Tchoupitoulas street. 

Whoever remembers that thoroughfare as it was in 
those days, when the commodious “ cotton-float’" had not 
quite yet come into use, and Poydras and other streets 
did not so vie with Tchoupitoulas in importance as they 
do now, will recall a scene of commercial hurly-burly that 
inspired much pardonable vanity in the breast of the 
utilitarian citizen. Drays, drays, drays! Not the light 
New York things ; but big, heavy, solid affairs, many of 
them drawn by two tall mules harnessed tandem. Drays 
by threes and by dozens, drays in opposing phalanxes, 
drays in long processions, drays with all imaginable kinds 
of burden ; cotton in bales, piled as high as the omnibuses ; 
leaf tobacco in huge hogsheads ; cases of linens and silks ; 
stacks of rawhides; crates of cabbages; bales of prints 
and of hay; interlocked heaps of blue and red ploughs ; 
bags of coffee, and spices, and corn; bales of bagging; 
barrels, casks, and tierces; whiskey, pork, onions, oats, 
bacon, garlic, molasses, and other delicacies; rice, sugar, 
— what was there not? Wines of France and Spain, in 
pipes, in baskets, in hampers, in octaves; queensware 
from England; cheeses, like cart-wheels, from Switzer¬ 
land ; almonds, lemons, raisins, olives, boxes of citron, 


A QUESTION OF BOOK-KEEPING. 5d 

casks of chains ; specie from Vera Cruz ; cries of drivers, 
cracking of whips, rumble of wheels, tremble of earth, 
frequent gorge and stoppage. It seemed an idle tale to 
say that any one could be lacking bread and raiment. 

We are a great city,” said the patient foot-passengers, 
waiting long on street corners for opportunity to cross the 
way. 

On one of these corners paused Rich ling. He had not 
found employment, but you could not read that in his 
face; as well as he knew himself, he had come forward 
into the world prepared amiably and patiently to be, to 
do, to suffer anything, provided it was not wrong or 
ignominious. He did not see that even this is not enough 
in this rough world ; nothing had yet taught him that one 
must often gently suffer rudeness and wrong. As to 
what constitutes ignominy he had a very young man’s — 
and, shall we add ? a very American — idea. He could 
not have believed, had he been told, how many establish¬ 
ments he had passed by, omitting to apply in them for 
employment. He little dreamed he had been too select. 
He had entered not into any house of the Samaritans, to 
use a figure; much less, to speak literally, had he gone 
to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. Mary, hiding 
away in uncomfortable quarters a short stone’s throw 
from Madame Z4nobie’s, little imagined that, in her broad 
irony about his not hunting for employment, there was 
really a tiny seed of truth. She felt sure that two or 
three persons who had seemed about to employ him had 
failed to do so because they detected the defect in his 
hearing, and in one or two cases she was right. 

Other persons paused on the same corner where Rich- 
ling stood, under the same momentary embarrassment 
One man, especially busy-looking, drew very near him. 
And then and there occurred this simple accir>nt, — that 


54 


DR. SEVIER. 


at last he came in contact with the man who had work to 
give him. This person good-humoredly offered an 
impatient comment on their enforced delay. Richling 
answered in sympathetic spirit, and the first speaker re 
iponded with a question: — 

“ Stranger in the city? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Buying goods for up-country?” 

It was a pleasant feature of New Orleans life that 
sociability to strangers on the street was not the exclusive 
prerogative of gamblers’ decoys. 

“ No ; I’m looking for employment.” 

“ Aha I ” said the man, and moved away a little. But 
in a moment Richling, becoming aware that his questioner 
was glancing all over him with critical scrutiny, turned, 
and the man spoke. 

“ D’you keep books? ” 

Just then a way opened among the vehicles; and the 
man, young and muscular, darted into it, and Richling 
followed. 

“ I can keep books,” he said, as they reached the 
farther curb-stone. 

The man seized him by the arm. 

“ D’you see that pile of codfish and herring where that 
tall man is at work yonder with a marking-pot and brush ? 
Well, just beyond there is a boarding-house, and then a 
hardware store; you can hear them throwing down sheets 
of iron. Here; you can see the sign. See? Well, the 
next is my store. Go in there — upstairs into the office — 
and wait till I come.” 

Richling bowed and went. In the office he sat down 
and waited what seemed a very long time. Could he have 
misunderstood? For the man did not come. There was 
9 person sitting at a desk on the farther side of the cfflce, 


A QUESTION OF BOOK-KEEPING. 


55 


f^riting, who had not lifted his head from first to last 
Ricbling said: — 

“ Can you tell me when the propiietor will be in?” 

The writer's eyes rose, and dropped again upon hi* 
mting. 

“ What do you want with him?” 

“ He asked me to wait here for him.” 

“ Better wait, then.” 

Just then in came the merchant. Richling rose, and 
he uttered a rude exclamation: — 

“ I forgot you completely! Where did you say you 
kept books at, last ? ” 

“ Fve not kept anybody’s books yet, but I can do it.” 

The merchant’s response was cold and prompt. He 
did not look at Richling, but took a sample vial of molas¬ 
ses from a dirty mantel-piece and lifted it between his 
eyes and the light, saying : — 

“ You can’t do any such thing. I don’t want you.” 

“ Sir,” said Richling, so sharply that the merchant 
looked round, “ if you don’t want me I don’t want you; 
but you mustn’t attempt to tell me that what I say is not 
true! ” He had stepped forward as he began to speak, 
but he stopped before half his words were uttered, and 
saw his folly. Even while his voice still trembled with 
passion and his head was up, he colored with mortifica¬ 
tion. That feeling grew no less when his offender simply 
looked at him, and the man at the desk did not raise his 
eyfes. It rather increased when he noticed that both of 
them were young— as young as he. 

“ I don’t doubt your truthfulness,” said the merchant, 
marking the effect of his forbearance ; ‘‘ but you ought to 
know you can’t come in and take charge of a large set of 
books in the midst cf a busy season, when vou’ve nevei 
Kept books before.” 


56 


DR. SEVIER. 


“,I don’t know it at all.” 

“ WeU, 1 do,” said the merchant, still more coldly thai 
before. “ There are my books,” he added, warming, and 
pointed to three great canvassed and black-initialled vol¬ 
umes standing in a low iron safe, “ left only yesterday in 
such a snarl, by a fellow who had ‘ never kept books, b:it 
knew how,’ that 1 shall have to open another set I After 
this I shall have a book-keeper who has kept books.” 

He turned away. 

Some weeks afterward Richling recalled vividly a 
thought that had struck him only faintly at this time: 
that, beneath much superficial severity and energy, there 
was in this establishment a certain looseness of manage¬ 
ment. It may have been this half-recognized thought that 
gave him courage, now, to say, advancing another step : — 

“ One word, if you please.” 

“ It’s no use, my friend.” 

“ It may be.” 

“How?” 

“Get an experienced book-keeper for your new set of 
books ”— 

“ You can bet your bottom dollar I ” said the merchant, 
turning again and running his hands down into his lower 
pockets. “ And even he’ll have as much as he can 
do”— 

“That is just what I wanted you to say,” kterrupted 
Richling, trying hard to smile; “ then you can let me 
straighten up the old set.” 

“ Give a new hand the work of an expert I ” 

The merchant almost laughed out. He shook his head 
and was about to say more, when Richling persisted; — 

“ If I don’t do the work to your satisfaction don’t pay 
me a cent.” 

‘ 1 never make that sort of an arrangement; no, sir! 


A QUESTION or BOOK-KEEPINa. 


57 


Unfortunately it had not been Richling's habit to show 
this pertinacity, else life might have been easier to him as 
a problem; but these two young men, his equals in age, 
were casting amused doubts upon his ability to make good 
his professions. The case was peculiar. He reached a 
band out toward the books. 

“ Let me look over them for one day; if I don^t con- , 
vince you the next morning in five minutes that I can 
straighten them I’ll leave them without a word.” 

The merchant looked down an instant, and then turned 
to the man at the desk. 

“ What do you think of that, Sam? ” 

Sam set his elbows upon the desk, took the small end 
of his pen-holder in his hands and teeth, and, looking up, 
said: — 

“ I don’t know ; you might — try him.” 

“ What did you say your name was?” asked the other, 
again facing Richling. “ Ah, yes I Who are your refer¬ 
ences, Mr. Richmond?” 

“Sir?” Richling leaned slightly forward and turned 
his ear. 

“ I say, who knows you?” 

“ Nobody.” 

“ Nobody! Where are you from ? ” 

“ Milwaukee.” 

The merchant tossed out his arm impatiently. 

“ Oh, I can’t do that kind o’ business.” 

He turned abruptly, went to his desk, and, sitting 
down half-hidden by it, tock up an open letter. 

“ I bought that coffee, Sam,” he said, rising again and 
moving farther away. 

“ Umhum,” said Sam; and all was still. 

Richling stood expecting every instant to turn on the 
next and go. Yet he went not. Under the dusty front 


68 


DK. flEVUGR. 


ffindow3 of the counting-room the street was ronring 
below. Just beyond a glass partition at his back a great 
windlass far up under the roof was rumbling with the 
descent of goods from a hatchway at the end of its tense 
rope. Salesmen were calling, trucks were trundling, 
shipping clerks and porters were replying. One brawny 
fellow he saw, through the glass, take a herring from a 
broken box, and atop to feed it to a sleek, brindled mouser. 
Even the cat was valued; but he—he stood there ab¬ 
solutely zero. He saw it. He saw it as he never had seen 
it before in his life. This truth smote him like a javelin: 
that all this world wants is a man’s permission to do 
without him. Right then it was that he thought he 
swallowed all his pride; whereas he only tasted its bitter 
brine as like a wave it took him up and lifted him forward 
bodily. He strode up to the desk beyond which stood 
the merchant, with the letter still in his hand, and 
said: — 

“I’ve not gone yet! I may have to be turned off by 
you, but not in this manner I ” 

The merchant looked around at him with a smile cf 
surprise, mixed with amusement and commendation, bu'. 
said nothing. Richling held out his open hand. 

“ I don’t ask you to trust me. Don’t trust me. Tr\ 
me!” 

He looked distressed. He was not begging, but he 
seemed to feel as though he were. 

The merchant dropped his eyea again upon the letter 
and in that attitude asked: — 

“ What do you say, Sam?” 

“ He can’t hurt anything,” said Sam. 

The merchant looked suddenly at Richling. 

“ You’re not from Milwaukee. You’re a Southern 
man.” 


A QUESTION OF BOOK-KEEPINO. 


59 


Ridiling changed color. 

“ I said Milwaukee.” 

“ W«U,” said the merchant, ‘I hardly know. Come 
and see me further about it to-morrow morning. I 
haven’t time to talk now.” 

“ Take a seat,” he said, the next morning, and drew 
up a chair sociably before the returned applicant. 
“ Now, suppose I was to give you those books, all in con¬ 
fusion as they are, what would you do first of all?” 

Mary fortunately had asked the same question the 
might before, and her husband was entirely ready with an 
answer which they had studied out in bed. 

“I should send your deposit-book to bank to be 
balanced, and, without waiting for it, I should begin to 
take a trial-balance off the books. If I didn’t get one 
pretty soon, I’d drop that for the time being, and turn 
in and render the accounts of everybody on the books, 
asking them to examine and report.” 

“All right,” said the merchant, carelessly; “we’ll 
try you.” 

“ Sir?” Richling bent his ear. 

All right; we'll try you I I don’t care much about 
recommendations. I generally most always make up my 
opinion about a man from looking at him. I’m that sori 
of a man.” 

He smiled with inordinate complacency. 

So, week by week, as has been said already, the winter 
passed,— Richling on one side of the town, hidden away 
in his work, and Dr. Sevier on the other, very positive 
that the “ young pair ” must have returned to Milwaukee. 

At length the big books were readjusted in all their 
hundreds of pages, were balanced, and closed. Much 
satisfaction was expressed; but another man had mean- 


60 


DR. SEVIER. 


time taken charge of the new books,—one who inflQence( 
business, and Richliiig had nothing to do but put on his 
hat. 

However, the house cheerfully recommended him to a 
neighboring firm, which also had disordered books to be 
righted; and so more weeks passed. Happy weeks! 
Happy days ! Ah, the joy of them I John bringing home 
money, and Mary saving it! 

“But, John, it seems such a pity not to have stayed 
with A, B, & Co.; doesn’t it ? ” 

“I don’t think so. I don’t think they’ll last much 
longer.” 

And when he brought word that A, B, & Co. had gone 
into a thousand pieces Mary was convinced that she had 
a very far-seeing husband. 

By and by, at Richling’s earnest and restless desire, 
they moved their lodgings again. And thus we return by 
a circuit to the morning when Dr. Sevier, taking up his 
slate, read the summons that bade him call at the corner 
@f St. Mary and Prytania streets. 


WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. 


61 


CHAPTER rx 


WHEN THE WIND BLOWS 



HE house itands there to-day. A small, pinched, 


frame, ground-floor-and-attic, double tenement, with 
its roof sloping toward St. Mary street and overhanging 
its two door-steps that jut out on the sidewalk. There 
the Doctor’s carriage stopped, and in its front room he 
found Mary in bed again, as ill as ever. A humble Ger¬ 
man woman, living in the adjoining half of the house, 
was attending to the invalid’s wants, and had kept her 
daughter from the public school to send her to the 
apothecary with the Doctor’s prescription. 

“It is the poor who help the poor,” thought the 
physician. 

“Is this your home?” he asked the woman softly, as 
he sat down by the patient’s pillow. He looked about 
upon the small, cheaply furnished room, full of the neat 
makeshifts of cramped housewifery. 

“ It’s mine,” whispered Mary. Even as she lay there 
in peril of her life, and flattened out as though Jugger¬ 
naut had rolled over her, her eyes shone with happiness 
and scintillated as the Doctor exclaimed in undert'^ne: — 

“YoursI” He laid his hand upon her forehead. 
“Where is Mr. Richling?” 

“ At the oflQce.” Her eyes danced with delight. She 
would have begun, then and there, to tell him all that had 
happened, — “had taken care of herself all along,” she 
said, “ until they began to move. In moving, had been 
obliged to overwork — hardly yet ” — 


/ 


62 DR. SETTER. 

But the Doctor gently checked her and bade her be 
quiet. 

“I will,” was the faint reply; “I will; but— just 
one thing, Doctor, please let me say.*’ 

“Well?” 

“ John” — 

“Yes, yes; I know; he’d be here, only you wouldn’t 
let him stay away from his work.” 

She smiled assent, and he smiled in return. 

“ ‘ Business is business,’ ” he said. 

She turned a quick, sparkling glance of affirmation, as 
if she had lately had some trouble to maintain that 
ancient truism. She was going to speak again, but the 
Doctor waved his hand downward soothingly toward the 
restless form and uplifted eyes. 

“ All right,” she whispered, and closed them. 

The next day she was worse. The physician found 
himself, to use his words, “ only the tardy attendant of 
offended nature.” When he dropped his finger-ends 
gently upon her temple she tremblingly grasped his hand. 

“ You’ll save me?” she whispered. 

“Yes,” he replied ; “ we’ll do that — the Lord helping 
us.” 

A glad light shone from her face as he uttered the 
latter clause. Whereat he made haste to add : — 

“ I don’t pray, but I’m sure you do.” 

She silently pressed the hand she still held. 

On Sunday he found Richling at the bedside. Mary 
had improved considerably in two or three days. She 
lay quite still as they talked, only shifting her glance 
softly from one to the other as one and then the other 
spoke. The Doctor heard with interest Richling’s full 
account of all that had occurred since he had met them 
Ust together. Mary’s eyes filled with merriment when 


WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. 


63 


John told the droller part of their experiences in the 
hard quarters from which they had only lately removed. 
But the Doctor did not so much as smile. Richling 
fiuished, and the physician was silent. 

“ Oh, we’re getting along,” said Richling, stroking the 
small, weak hand that lay near him on the coverlet. 
But still the Doctor kept silence. 

Of course,” said Richling, very quietly, looking at 
his wife, “ we mustn’t be surprised at a backset now and 
then.. But we’re getting on.” 

Mary turned her eyes toward the Doctor. Was he not 
going to assent at all ? She seemed about to speak. He 
bent his ear, and she said, with a quiet smile: — 

“ ‘ When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.’ ” 

The physician gave only a heavy-eyed “ Humph! ” and 
a faint look of amusement. 

“What did she say?” said Richling; the words had 
escaped his ear. The Doctor repeated it, and Richling, 
too, smiled. 

Yet it was a good speech, —why not? But the patient 
also smiled, and turned her eyes toward the wall with a 
disconcerted look, as if the smile might end in tears. 
For herein lay the very difficulty that always brought the 
Doctor’s carriage to the door, — the cradle would not 
rock. 

For a few days more that carriage continued to appear, 
and then ceased. Richling dropped in one morning at 
Number Carondelet, and settled his bill with Narcisse. 

The young Creole was much pleased to be at length 
brought into actual contact with a man of his own years, 
who, without visible effort, had made an impression on 
Dr. Sevier. 

Until the money had been paid and the bill receipted 
nothing more than a formal business phrase or two 


64 


DR. SEVIER. 


passed between them. But as Narcisse delivered the 
receipted bill, with an elaborate gesture of courtesy, and 
Richling began to fold it for his pocket, the Creole re* 
marked: — 

“ I 'ope you will excuse the 'an'-a-’iting.” 

Richling reopened the paper; the penmanship was 
beautiful. 

“Do you ever write better than this?” he asked. 
“Why, I wish I could write half as well.!” 

“ No ; I do not fine that well a-’itten. I cannot see 'ow 
that is, — I nevva ’ite to the satizfagtion of my abil’ty 
soon in the mawnin’s. I am destroying my chi’og’aphy 
at that desk yeh.” 

“Indeed? ” said Richling ; “ why, I should think ” — 

“Yesseh, 'tis the tooth. But consunning the chi’og’a¬ 
phy, Mistoo Itchlin, I ’ave descovvud one thing to a 
Haul cettainty, and that is, if I ’ave something to ’ite to 
a young lady, I always dizguise my chi’og’aphy. Ha-ah I 
I ’ave learn that! You will be aztonish’ to see in ’ow 
many diffe’n’ fawm’ I can make my ’an’-a-’iting to appeah. 
That paz thoo my fam’ly, in fact, Mistoo Itchlin. My 
hant, she’s got a honcle w’at use’ to be cluck in a bank, 
w’at could make the si’natu’e of the pwesiden’, as well as 
of the cashieh, with that so absolute puffegtion, that they 
tu’n ’im out of the bank! Yesseh. In fact, I thing you 
ought to know ’ow to ’ite a ve’y fine ’an’, Mistoo Itchlin.” 

“ N-not very,” said Richling ; “ my hand is large and 
legible, but not well adapted for — book-keeping; it’s too 
'^avy.” 

“You ’ave the ’ight physio’nomie, I am shu’. You 
will pe’haps believe me with difiSculty, Mistoo Itchlin, 
but I assu’ you I can tell if a man ’as a fine chi’og’aphy 
aw no, by juz lookin’ upon his liniment. Do you know 
that Benjamin Fwanklin ’ote a v’ey fine chi’og’aphy, is 


WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. 


65 


fa,;t? Also, Voltaire. Yesseh. An' Napoleon Bona> 
parte. Lawd By’on muz 'ave 'ad a beaucheouz chi’og'a- 
phy. ’Tis impossible not to be, with that face. He is 
my favo ite poet, that Lawd By’on. Moze people pwefeh 
’im to Shakspere, in fact. Well, you muz go? I am ve’y 
’appy to meek yo’ acquaintanze, Mistoo Itchlin, seh. I 
am so’y Doctah Seveeah is not theh pwesently. The negs 
time 3'ou call, Mistoo Itchlin, you muz not be too much 
aztonizh to fine me gone from yeh. Yesseh. He’s got to 
haugment me ad the en’ of that month, an’ we ’ave to-day 
the fifteenth Mawch. Do you smoke, Mistoo Itchlin ? 
He extended a package of cigarettes. Richling accepted 
one. “ I smoke lawgely in that weatheh,” striking a 
match on his thigh. “ I feel ve’y sultwy to-day. Well,*' 
— he seized the visitor’s hand, — “ au^evoi*, Mistoo Itch¬ 
lin.” And Narcisse returned to his desk happy in the 
conviction that Richling had gone away dazried. 


66 


DB. SEVIER. 


CHAPTER X, 


aENTLES AND COMMONS, 



R. SEVIER sat in the great easy-chair under th« 


-I—' drop-light of his library table trying to read a book. 
But his thought was not on the page. He expired a long 
breath of annoyance, and lifted his glance backward from 
the bottom of the page to its top. 

Why must his mind keep going back to that little cot¬ 
tage in St. Mary street? What good reason was there? 
Would they thank him for his solicitude? Indeed! He 
almost smiled his contempt of the supposition. Why, 
when on one or two occasions he had betrayed a least 
little bit of kindly interest, — what? Up had gone their 
youthful vivacity like an umbrella. Oh, yes ! — like all 
young folks — affairs were intensely private. Once 
or twice he had shaken his head at the scantiness of ail 
their provisions for life. Well? They simply and un¬ 
consciously stole a hold upon one another’s hand or arm, 
as much as to say, “ To love is enough.” When, gentle¬ 
men of the jury, it isn’t enough! 

“ Pshaw ! ” The word escaped him audibly. He drew 
partly up from his half recline, and turned back a leaf of 
the book to try once more to make out the sense of it. 

But there was Mary, and there was her husband. Es^ 
pecially Mary. Her image came distinctly between his 
eyes and the page. There she was, just as on his last 
visit, — a superfluous one — no charge, — sitting and plj 
mg her needle, unaware of his approach, gently moving 


GENTLES ANT) COMMONS. 


67 


ner rocking-chair, and softly singing, “ Flow on, thou 
ikining river,” — the song his own wife used to sing. 
“O child, child! do you think it’s always going to be 
‘suining’?” They shouldn t be so contented. Was 
pride under that cloak? Oh, no, no! But even if the 
content was genuine, it wasn’t good. Why, they oughtn’t 
to be able to be happy so completely out of their true 
sphere. It showed insensibility. But, there again, -r- 
Richling wasn’t insensible, much less Mary. 

The Doctor let his book sink, face downward, upon his 
knee. 

“ They’re too big to be playing in the sand.” He took 
up the book again. “ ’Tisn’t my business to tell them so.” 
But before he got the volume fairly before his eyes his 
professional bell rang, and he tossed'the book upon the 
table. 

“Well, why don’t you bring him in?” he asked, in a 
tone of reproof, of a servant who presented a card; and 
in a moment the Tusitor entered. 

He was a person of some fifty years of age, with a 
patrician face, in which it was impossible to tell where 
benevolence ended and pride began. His dress was of 
fine cloth, a little antique in cut, and fitting rather loosely 
on a form something above the medium height, of good 
width, but bent in the shoulders, and with arms that had 
been stronger. Years, it might be, or possibly some un¬ 
flinching struggle with troublesome facts, had given many 
lines of his face a downward slant. He apologized for 
the hour of his call, and accepted with thanks the chair 
offered him. 

“You are not a resident of the city?” asked Dr. 
Sevier. 

“ I am from Ksntucky.” The voice was rich, and th€ 


68 


DR. SEVIER. 


stranger^s general air one of rather conscious social 
eminence. 

“Yes?” said the Doctor, not specially pleased, and 
l(X)ked at him closer. lie wore a black satin neck-stock, 
and dark-blue buttoned gaiters. His hair was dyed brown. 
4 slender frill adorned his shirt-front. 

“Mrs.” — the visitor began to say, not giving the 
name, but waving his index-finger toward his card, which 
Dr. Sevier had laid upon the table, just under the lamp, — 
“ ray wife. Doctor, seems to be in a very feeble condition. 
Her physicians have advised her to try the effects of a 
change of scene, and I have brought her down to your 
busy city, sir.” 

The Doctor assented. The stranger resumed : — 

“ Its hurry and energy are a great contrast to the plan¬ 
tation life, sir.” 

“ They’re very unlike,” thfe physician admitted. 

“ This chafing of thousands of competitive designs,” 
said the visitor, “ this great fretwork of cross purposcSs, 
is a decided change from the quiet order of our rural life. 
Hmm! There everything is under the administration of 
one undisputed will, and is executed by the unquestioning 
obedience of our happj' and contented slave peasantry. I 
prefer the country. But I thought this was just the change 
that would arouse and electrify an invalid who has really 
no tangible complaint.” 

“ Has the result been unsatisfactory? ” 

“ Entirely so. I am unexpectedly disappointed.” The 
speaker’s thought seemed to be that the climate of New 
Orleans had not responded with that hospitable alacrity 
which was due so opulent, reasonable, and unive.’saUj 
obeyed a guest. 

There was a pause here, and Dr. Sevier looked around 


GENTLES AND COMMONS. 


69 


at the book which lay at his elbow. But the visitor did 
aot resume, and the Doctor presently asked: — 

“ Do you wish me to see your wife? ” 

“ I called to see you alone first,” said the othei, “be¬ 
cause there might be questions to be asked which were 
better answered in her absence.” 

“ Then you think you know the secret of her illness, da 
you ? ” 

“ I do. I think, indeed I may say I know, it is — be¬ 
reavement.” 

The Doctor compressed his lips and bowed. 

The stranger drooped his head somewhat, and, resting 
his elbows on the arms of his chair, laid the tips of his 
ftiumbs and fingers softly together. 

“ The truth is, sir, she cannot recover from the loss of 
our son.” 

“ An infant? ” asked the Doctor. His bell rang again 
as he put the question. 

“ No, sir ; a young man, —one whom I had thought a 
person of great promise ; just about to enter life.” 

“ When did he die? ” 

“ He has been dead nearly a year. I ” — The speaker 
ceased as the mulatto waiting-man appeared at the open 
door, with a large, simple, German face looking easily 
over his head from behind. 

“ Toctor,” said the owner of this face, lifting an im¬ 
mense open hand, “ Toctor, uf you bleace, Toctor, you 
vill bleace ugscooce me.” 

The Doctor frowned at the servant for permitting the 
interruption. But the gentleman beside him said: — 

“ Let him come in, sir; he seems to be in haste, sir, 
and I am not, — I am not, at all.” 

“Come in,” said the ohysician. 


70 


DR. SEVIER. 


The new-comer stepped into the room. He was about 
six feet three inches in height, three feet six in breadth, 
and the same in thickness. Two kindly blue eyes shone 
softly in an expanse of face that had been clean-shaven 
every Saturday night for many years, and that ended in 
a retreating chin and a dewlap. The limp, white shirt- 
collar just below was without a necktie, and the waist of 
his pantaloons, which seemed intended to supply this de- 
iiciency, Jid not quite, but only almost reached up to the 
unoccupied blank. He removed^from his respectful head 
*a soft gray hat, whitened here and there with flour. 

“Yentlemen,” he said, slowly, “youvill ugscooce me 
to interiTiptet 3"ou,— yentlemen.” 

“ Do you wish to see me? ” asked Dr. Sevier. 

The German made an odd gesture of deferential assent, 
lifting one open hand a little in front of him to the level 
of his face, with the wrist bent forward and the fingers 
pointing down. 

“ Uf you bleace, Toctor, I toose; undt tafs te fust 
time I effer tit vanted a toctor. Undt you mus’ ugscooce 
me, Toctor, to callin* on you, ower I vish you come undt 
see mine ” — 

To the surprise of all, tears gushed from his eyes. 

“ Mine poor vife, Toctor I ” He turned to one side, 
pointed his broad hand toward the floor, and smote his 
forehead. 

“ I yoost come in fun mine paykery undt cornin’ into 
mine howse, fen — I see someting ” — he waved his 
hand downward again —“ someting — layin’ on te— floor 
— face pleck ans a nigger’s ; undt fen T look to see who 
udt iss, — udt is Mississ Reisen! Toctor, I vish yon 
come right off! I couldn’t shtayndt udt you toandt come 
fight avay I ” 

“ m come,” said the Doctor, without rising; “ just 


aENTLES AND COMMONS. 


71 


write your name and address on that little white slate 
yonder.” 

“Toctor,” said the German, extending and dipping his 
hat, “ Fm ferra much a-velcome to you, Toctor; undl 
tafs yoost fot te pottekerra by mine corner sayt you 
vould too. He sayss, * Reisen,’ he sayss, ‘you yoost co 
to Toctor Tsewier.’ ” He bent his great body over the 
farther end of the table and slowly worked out his name, 
street, and number. “ Dtere udt iss, Toctor; I put udt 
town on teh schlate; ower, I hope you ugscooce te 
hayndtwriding.” 

“Very well. Thafs right. That’s all.” 

The German lingered. The Doctor gave a bow of 
dismission. 

“ That’s all, I say. FU be there in a moment. That’s 
all. Dan, order my carriage I ” 

“ Yentlemen, you vUl ugscooce me?” 

The German withdrew, returning each gentleman’s bow 
with a faint wave of the hat. 

During this interview the more polished stranger had 
sat with bowed head, motionless and silent, lifting it only 
once and for a moment at the German’s emotional out¬ 
burst. Then the upward and backward turned face was 
marked with a commiseration partly artificial, but also 
partly natural. He now looked up at the Doctor. 

“ I shall have to leave you,” said the Doctor. 

“ Certainly, sir,” replied the other; “ by all means ! ” 
The willingness was slightly overdone and the benevolence 
of tone was mixed with complacency. “By all means,” 
he said again; “ this is one of those cases where it is 
only a proper grace in the higher to yield place to the 
lower.” He waited for a response, but the Doctor merely 
frowned into space and called for his boots. The >isitoi 
resumed: - - 


72 


DR. SBVEER. 


“ I have a good deal of feeling, sir, for the unlettered 
and the vulgar. They have their station, but they have 
also — though doubtless in smaller capacity than we — 
their pleasures and pains.” 

Seeing the Doctor ready to go, he began to rise. 

“ I may not be gone long,” said the physician, rather 
coldly ; “ if you choose to wait ” — 

‘‘ I thank you; n-no-o”— The visitor stopptd between 
a sitting and a rising posture. 

“ Here are books,” said the Doctor, “ and the evening 
papers, — ‘Picayune,’ ‘ Delta,’ ‘ True Delta.’ ” It seemed 
for a moment as though the gentleman might sink into 
his seat again. “And there’s the ‘ New York Herald.’” 

“ No, sir ! ” said the visitor quickly, rising and smooth¬ 
ing himself out; “nothing from that quarter, if you 
please.” Yet he smiled. The Doctor did not notice that, 
while so smiling, he took his card from the table. Therei 
was something familiar in the stranger’s face which the 
Doctor was trying to make out. They left the house 
together. Outside the street door the physician made 
apologetic allusion to their interrupted interview. 

“ Shall I see you at my office to-morrow? I would be 
happy ” — 

The stranger had raised his hat. He smiled again, ai 
pleasantly as he could, which was not delightful, and 
said, after a moment’s hesitation; — 

“ —Possibly.” 


A PANTOMIME. 


It 


CHAPTER XI. 

A PANTOMIME. 

I T chanced one evening about this time — the vernal 
equinox had just passed — that from some small cause 
Richling, who was generally detained at the desk until a 
late hour, was home early. The air was soft and warm, 
and he stood out a little beyond his small front door-step, 
lifting his head to inhale the universal fragrance, and 
looking in every moment, through the unlighted front 
room, toward a part of the diminutive house where a mild 
rattle of domestic movements could be heard, and whence 
he had, a little before, been adroitly requested to absent 
himself. He moved restlessly on his feet, blowing a soft 
tune. 

Presently he placed a foot on the step and a hand on 
the door-post, and gave a low, urgent call. 

A distant response indicated that his term of suspense 
was nearly over. He turned about again once or twice, 
and a moment later Mary appeared in the door, came 
down upon the sidewalk, looked up into the moonlit sky 
and down the empty, silent street, then turned and sat 
down, throwing her wrists across each other in her lap, 
and lifting her eyes to her husband’s with a smile that 
confessed her fatigue. 

The moon was regal. It cast its deep contrasts of 
clear-cut light and shadow among the thin, wooden, unar- 
ehitectural forms and weed-grown vacancies of the half- 
lettled neighborhood, investing the matter-of-fact with 


74 


DR. SEYIEB. 


mystery, and giving an unexpected charm to the anpio» 
turesque. It was — as Richling said, taking his plac« 
beside his wife — midspring in March. As he spoke hs 
noticed she had brought with her the odor of flcwers. 
Thsy were pinned at her throat. 

“ Where did you get them? ” he asked, touching them 
with his fingers. 

Her face lighted up. 

“ Guess.” 

How could he guess ? As far as he knew neither she 
nor he had made an acquaintance in the neighborhood. 
He shook his head, and she replied: — 

“The butcher.” 

“You’re a queer girl,” he said, when they had 
laughed. 

“Wliy?” 

You let these common people take to you so.” 

She smiled, with a faint air of concern. 

“ You don’t dislike it, do you?” she asked. 

“ Oh, no,” he said, indifferently, and spoke of other 
things. 

And thus they sat, like so many thousands and thou¬ 
sands of young pairs in this wide, free America, offering 
the least possible interest to the great human army round 
about them, but sharing, or believing they shared, in the 
fruitful possibilities of this land of limitless bounty, 
fondling their hopes and recounting the petty minutiae of 
their dailj experiences. Their converse was mainly in 
the form of questions from Mary and answers from 
John. 

“ And did he say that he would?” etc. “ And didn’t 
you insist that he should?” etc. “I don’t understand 
how he could require you to,” etc., etc. Looking at every¬ 
thing from John’s side, as if there ne xr could be any other, 


A JTANTOMIME. 


n 


ontil at last John himself laughed softly when she asked 
why he couldn’t take part of some outdoor man’s work, 
and give him part of his own desk-work in exchange, 
and why he couldn’t say plainly that his work was txx) 
sedentary. 

Then she proposed a walk in the moonlight, and 
insisted she was not tired; she wanted it on her own 
account. And so, when Richling had gone into the house 
and returned with some white worsted gauze for her head 
and neck and locked the door, they were ready to start. 

They were tarrying a moment to arrange this wrapping 
when they found it necessary to move aside from where 
they stood in order to let two persons pass on the side¬ 
walk. 

These were a man and woman, who had at least reached 
middle age. The woman wore a neatly fitting calico gown; 
the man, a short pilot-coat. His pantaloons were very 
tight and pale. A new soft hat was pushed forward from 
the left rear corner of his closely cropped head, with the 
front of the brim turned down over his right eye. At 
each step he settled down with a little jerk alternately on 
this hip and that, at the same time faintly dropping the 
corresponding shoulder. They passed. John and Mary 
looked at each other with a nod of mirthful approval. 
Why? Because the strangers walked silently hand-in- 
hand. 

It was a magical night. Even the part of town where 
they were, so devoid of character by day, had become 
all at once romantic with phantasmal lights and glooms, 
echoes and silences. Along the edge of a wide chimney- 
top on one blank, new hulk of a house, that nothing else 
could have made poetical, a mocking-bird hopped and 
ran back and forth, singing as if he must sing or die. 
The mere names of the streets they traversed suddenlj 


76 


DB« 8£ V JLEB* 


became sweet food for the fancy. Down at the first 
corner below they turned into one that had been an old 
country road, and was still named Felicity. 

Richling called attention to the word painted on a 
board. He merely pointed to it in playful silence, and 
then let his hand sink and rest on hers as it lay in his 
elbow. They were walking under the low tjughs of a 
line of fig-trees that overhung a high garden wall. Then 
some gay thought took him; but when his downward 
glance met the eyes uplifted to meet his they were grave, 
and there came an instantaneous tenderness into the 
exchange of looks that would have been worse than 
uninteresting to you or me. But the next moment she 
brightened up, pressed herself close to him, and caught 
step. They had not owned each other long enough to 
have settled into sedate possession, though they some¬ 
times thought they had done so. There was still a 
tingling ecstasy in one another’s touch and glance that 
prevented them from quite behaving themselves when 
under the moon. 

For instance, now, they began, though in cautious 
undertone, to sing. Some person approached them, and 
they hushed. When the stranger had passed, Ma^’v 
began again another song, alone: — 

“ Oh, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben BoltY 

“ Hush 1 ” said John, softly. 

She looked up with an air of mirthful inquiry, and hs 
added:— 

“ That was the name of Dr. Sevier’s wife.” 

“ But he doesn’t hear me singing.” 

“ No; but it seems as if he did.” 

And they sang no more. 


A PANTOMIME. 


77 


They entered a broad, open avenue, with a treeless, 
grassy way in the middle, up which came a very large and 
lumbering street-car, with smokers’ benches on the roof, 
a ad drawn by tandem horses. 

“Here we turn down,” said Richling, “into the waj 
of the Naiads.” (That was the street’s name.) “ They’re 
not trying to get me away.” 

He looked down playfully. She was clinging to him 
with more energy than she knew. 

“ I’d better hold you tight,” she answered. Both 
laughed. The nonsense of those we love is better than 
the finest wit on earth. They walked on in their bliss. 
Shall we follow ? Fie ! 

They passed down across three or four of a group of 
parallel streets named for the nine muses. At Thalia 
they took the left, went one square, and turned up by 
another street toward home. 

Their conversation had flagged. Silence was enough. 
The great earth was beneath their feet, firm and solid; 
the illimitable distances of the heavens stretched above 
their heads and before their eyes. Here was Mary at 
John’s side, and John at hers; John her property and 
she his, and time flowing softly, shiningly on. Yea, even 
more. If one might believe the names of the streets, 
there were Naiads on the left and Dryads on the right; 
a little farther on, Hercules; yonder corner the dark 
trysting-place of Bacchus and Melpomene ; and here. Just 
in advance, the corner where Terpsichore crossed the path 
of Apollo. 

They came now along a high, open fence that ran the 
entire length of a square. Above it a dense rank of 
bitter orange-trees overhung the sidewalk, their dark mass 
of foliage glittering in the moonlight. Within lay a deep, 
old-fashioned garden. Its white shell walks gleamed ii 


IS 


DB. SEVIER. 


many directions. A sweet breath came from its parttrret 
of mingled hyacinths and jonquils that hid themselves 
every moment in black shadows of ligustrums and laures- 
tines. Here, in severe order, a pair of palms, prim as 
mediaeval queens, stood over against each other; and in 
the midst of the garden, rising high against the sky, ap¬ 
peared the pillared veranda and immense, four-sided roof 
of an old French colonial villa, as it stands unchanged 
to-day. 

The two loiterers slackened their pace to admire the 
scene. There was much light shining from the house. 
Mary could hear voices, and, in a moment, words. The 
host was speeding his parting guests. 

“ The omnibus will put you out only one block from 
the hotel,” some one said. 

Dr. Sevier, returning home from a visit to a friend ia 
Polymnia street, had scarcely got well seated in -the om¬ 
nibus before he witnessed from its window a singulai 
dumb show. He had handed his money up to the drivei 
as they crossed Euterpe street, had received the change 
and deposited his fare as they passed Terpsichore, and 
was just siting down when the only other passenger in the 
vehicle said, half-rising : — 

“ Hello! there’s going to be a shooting scrape ! ” 

A rather elderly man and woman on the sidewalk, both 
of them extremely well dressed, and seemingly on the eve 
of hailing the omnibus, suddenly transferred their atten¬ 
tion to a younger couple a few steps from them, who 
appeared to have met them entirely by accident. The 
elderly lady threw out her arms toward tlie younger mac 
with an expression on her face of intensest mental suf¬ 
fering. She seemed to cry out; but the deafening rattle 
of the omnibus, as it approached them, inten^epted tb< 


A PANTOMIME. 


79 


ftound. All four of the persons seemed, In various ways, 
to experience the most violent feelings. The young man 
more than once moved as if about to start forward, yet 
did not advance; his companion, a small, very shapely 
woman, clung to him excitedly and pleadingly. The 
older man shook a stout cane at the younger, talking 
furiously as he did so. He held the elderly lady to him 
with his arm thrown about her, while she now cast her 
hands upward, now covered her face with them, now 
wrung them, clasped them, or extended one of them in 
seeming accusation against the younger person of her own 
sex. In a moment the omnibus was opposite the group. 
The Doctor laid his hand on his fellow-passenger’s arm. 

“ Don’t get out. There will be no shooting.” 

The young man on the sidewalk suddenly started for¬ 
ward, with his companion still on his farther arm, and 
with his eyes steadily fixed on those of the elder and taller 
man, a clenched fist lifted defensively, and with a tense, 
defiant air walked hurriedly and silently by within eas^ 
sweep of the uplifted staff. At the moment when the 
slight distance between the two men began to increase, 
the cane rose higher, but stopped short in its descent and 
pointed after the receding figure. 

“ T command you to leave this town, sir I ” 

Dr. Sevier looked. He looked with all his might, 
drawing his knee under him on the cushion and leaning 
out. The young man had passed. He still moved on, 
turning back as he went a face full of the fear that men 
show when they are afraid of their own violence; and, 3 j 
the omnibus clattered away, he crossed the street at the 
upper corner and disappeared in the shadows. 

“That’s a very strange thing,” said the other passen¬ 
ger to Dr. Sevier, as they resumed the corner seats by the 
door. 


80 


DB. SEVIER. 


“ It certainly is I ” replied the Doctor, and averted his 
face. For when the group and he were nearest together 
and tile moon shone brightly upon the four, he saw, be¬ 
yond all question, that the older man was his visitor of a 
few evenings before and that the y hunger pair were Joh* 
and Mary Bidding. 


* she’s all the wokld.” 


81 


CHAPTER xn 


“ she’s all the world.” 



iXCELLENT neighborhood, St. Mary street, anl 


-L-i Prytania was even better. Everybody was very re¬ 
tired though, it seemed. Almost every house standing in 
the midst of its shady garden, — sunny gardens are a 
newer fashion of the town, — a bell-knob on the gate¬ 
post, and the gate locked. But the Richlings cared noth¬ 
ing for this ; not even what they should have cared. Nor 
was there any unpleasantness in another fact. 

“Do you let this window stand wide this way when you 
are at work here, all day?” asked the husband. The 
opening alluded to was on Prytania street, and looked 
across the way to where the asylumed widows of “St 
Anna’s ” could glance down into it over their poor little 
window-gardens. 

“Why, yes, dear!” Mary looked up from her little 
cane rocker with that thoughtful contraction at the outer 
corners of her eyes and that illuminated smile that be¬ 
tween them made half her beauty. And then, somewhat 
more gravely and persuasively: “ Don’t you suppose they 
like it? They must like it. I think we can do that much 
for them. Would you rather Pd shut it?” 

For answer John laid his hand on her head and gazed 
into her eyes. 

“ Take care,” she whispered; “ they’ll see you.” 

He let his arm drop in amused despair. 

“Why, what’s the window open for? And, anyhoW) 
they’re all abed and asleep these two hours.” 


62 


DR. SEVIER. 


They did like it, those aged widows. It fed their 
hearts’ hunger to see the pretty unknown passing and re¬ 
passing that open window in the performance of her 
morning duties, or sitting down near it with her needle, 
still crooning her soft morning song, — poor, almost as 
poor as they, in this world’s glitter ; but rich in hope and 
courage, and rich beyond all count in the content of one 
who finds herself queen of ever so little a house, where 
love is. 

“ Love is enough ! ” said the widows. 

And certainly she made it seem so. The open win¬ 
dow brought, now and then, a moisture to the aged eyes, 
yet they liked it open. 

But, without warning one day, there was a change. It 
was the day after Dr. Sevier had noticed that queer street 
quarrel. The window was not closed, but it sent out no 
more light. The song was not heard, and many small, 
*aint signs gave indication that anxiety had come to be a 
guest in the little house. At evening the wife was seen in 
ier front door and about its steps, watching in a new, 
restless way for her husband’s coming; and when he came 
it could be seen, all the way from those upper windows, 
where one or two faces appeared now and then, that he 
was troubled and careworn. There were two more days 
like this one ; but at the end of the fourth the wife read 
good tidings in her husband’s countenance. He handed 
her a newspaper, and pointed to a list of departing 
passengers. 

“They’re gone ! ” she exclaimed. 

He nodded, and laid off his hat. She cast her arms 
about his neck, and buried her head in his bosom. You 
could almost have seen Anxiety flying out at the window 
By morning the widows knew of a certainty that tho 
cloud had melted away. 


she’s aul the world.” 


83 


In the counting-room one evening, as Richling said 
good-night with noticeable alacrity, one of his employers, 
sitting with his legs crossed over the top of a desk, said 
to his partner; — 

“ Richling works for his wages.” 

“ That’s all,” replied the other ; “ he don’t see his inter¬ 
ests in ours any more than a tinsmith would, who comes 
to mend the roof.” 

The first one took a meditative puff or two from his 
cigar, tipped off its ashes, and responded: — 

“ Common fault. He completely overlooks his immense 
indebtedness to the world at large, and his dependence on 
it. He’s a good fellow, and blight; but he actually 
thinks that he and the world are starting even.” 

“ His wife’s his world,” said the other, and opened the 
Bills Payable book. Who will say it is not well to sail in 
an ocean of love ? But the Richlings were becalmed in 
theirs, and, not knowing it, were satisfied. 

Day in, day out, the little wife sat at her window, and 
drove her needle. Omnibuses rumbled by ; an occasional 
wagon or cart set the dust a-flying; the street venders 
passed, crying the praises of their goods and wares; the 
blue sky grew more and more intense as weeks piled ur 
upon weeks ; but the empty repetitions, and the isolation 
and, worst of all, the escape of time, — she smiled at all, 
and sewed on and crooned on, hi the sufficient thought 
that John would come, each time, when only hours enough 
had passed away forever. 

Once she saw Dr. Sevier’s carriage. She bowed brightly, 
but he — what could it mean ? — he lifted his hat with such 
austere gravity. Dr. Sevier was angry. He had no A?fi- 
nite charge to make, but that did not lessen his displeas¬ 
ure. After long, unpleasant wondering, and long trusting 
to see Richling some day on the street, he had at length 


84 


DR. SEVIER. 


driven by this way purposely to see if they had indeed 
left town, as they had been so imperiously commanded 
to do. 

This incident, trivial as it was, roused Mary to thought; 
And all the rest of the day the thought worked with energy 
to dislodge the frame of mind that she had acquired from 
her husband. 

When John came home that night and pressed her to 
his bosom she was silent. And when he held her off a 
little and looked into her eyes, and she tried to better 
her smile, those eyes stood full to the lashes and she 
looked down. 

“ What’s the matter?” asked he, quickly. 

“ Nothing I ” She looked up again, with a little laugh. 

He took a chair and drew her down upon his lap. 

“What’s the matter with my girl?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ How, — you don’t know ? ” 

“ Why, I simply don’t. I can’t make out what it is. 
If I could I’d tell you; but I don’t know at all.” After 
they had sat silent a few moments: — 

“ I wonder ” — she began. 

“ You wonder what?” asked he, in a rallying tone. 

“I wonder if there’s such a thing as being too con 
tented.” 

Richling began to hum, with a playful manner: — 

“ * And she’s all the world to me.* 


LB that being too ” — 

“ Stop I ” said Mary, “ That’s it.” She laid her hand 

upon his shoulder. “You’ve said it. That’s what I 
ought not to be I” 

“ Why, Mary, what on earth ”— His face flamed up. 


she’s all the world.’’ 


85 


“John, I’m willing to be more than all the rest of the 
iforld to you. I always must be that. I’m going to be 
that forever. And you” — she kissed him passionately 

— “ you’re all the world to me I But I’ve no right to be 
all the world to you. And you mustn’t allow it. It’s 
making it too small I ” 

“ Mary, what are you saying?” 

“ Don’t, John. Don’t speak that way. I’m not saying 
anything. I’m only trying to say something, I don’t 
know what.” 

“ Neither do I,” was the mock-rueful answer. 

“ I only know,” replied Mary, the vision of Dr. Sevier’s 
carriage passing before her abstracted eyes, and of the 
Doctor’s pale face bowing austerely within it, “ that if 
you don’t take any part or interest in the outside world 
it’ll take none in you ; do you think it will ? ” 

“And who cares if it doesn’t ?” cried John, clasping 
her to his bosom. 

“ I do,” she replied. “ Yes, I do. Fve no right to 
steal you from the rest of the world, or from the place in 
it that you ought to fill. John ” — 

“ That’s my name.” 

“ Why can’t I do something to help you? ” 

John lifted his head unnecessarily. 

“ No I ” 

“ Well, then, let’s think of something we can do, with 
out just waiting for the wind to blow us along, — I mean,” 
dhe added appeasingly, “I mean without waiting to be 
employed by others.” 

“ Oh, yes ; but that takes capital I ” 

“ Yes, I know; but why don’t you think up something, 

— some new enterprise or something, — and get somebody 
with capital to go in with you ? ” 

He shook his head. 


86 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ You^re out of your depth. And that wouldn’t make 
so much difference, but you’re out of mine. It isn’t enough 
to think of something ; you must know how to do it. And 
what do I know how to do? Nothing! Nothing tliat’s 
worth doing! ” 

“ I know one thing you could do.” 

“ What’s that?” 

“ You could be a professor in a college.” 

John smiled bitterly. 

“Without antecedents?” he asked. 

Their eyes met; hers dropped, and both voices were 
silent. Mary drew a soft sigh. She thought their talk 
had been unprofitable. But it had not. John laid hAd 
of work from that day on in a better and wiser spirit. 


THE BOUGH BEEAKS. 


87 


CHAPTER Xm. 

THE BOUGH BREAKS. 

B y some trivial chance, she hardly knew what, Mary 
found herself one day conversing at her own door 
with the woman whom she and her husband had once 
smiled at for walking the moonlit street with her hand in 
willing and undisguised captivity. She was a large and 
strong, but extremely neat, well-spoken, and good-looking 
Irish woman, who might have seemed at ease but for a 
faintly betrayed ambition. 

She praised with rather ornate English the goc-d appear¬ 
ance and convenient smallness of Mary’s house ; said her 
own was the same size. That person with whom she 
sometimes passed “ of a Sundeh” —yes, and moonlight 
evenings — that was her husband. He was “ ferst ingin- 
eeur ” on a steamboat. There was a little, just dis¬ 
cernible waggle in her head as she stated things. It gave 
her decided character. 

“ Ah I engineer,” said Mary. 

“ Ferst ingineeur,” repeated the woman; “ you know 
there bees ferst ingineeurs, an’ secon’ ingineeurs, an’ 
therd ingineeurs. Yes.” She unconsciously fanned her 
self with a dust-pan that she had just bought from a tin 
peddler. 

She lived only some two or three hundred yards away, 
around the corner, in a tidy little cottage snuggled ia 
among larger houses in Coliseum street. She had had 
children, but she had lost them; and Mary’s sympathy 


88 


DR. SEVIER. 


when she told her of them — the girl and two boys — won 
the woman as much as the little lady's pretty manners had 
dazed her. It was not long before she began to diop in 
upon Mary in the hour of twilight, and sit through it with¬ 
out speaking often, or making herself especially interest¬ 
ing in any way, but finding it pleasant, notwithstanding. 

“ John,” said Mary, — her husband had come in unex¬ 
pectedly, — “ our neighbor, Mrs. Riley.” 

John's bow was rather formal, and Mrs. Riley soon rose 
and said good-evening. 

“ John,” said the wife again, laying her hands on his 
shoulders as she tiptoed to kiss him, “ what troubles 
you? ” Then she attempted a rallying manner: “ Don't 
my friends suit you ? ” 

He hesitated only an instant, and said: — 

“ Oh, yes, that's all right I ” 

“ Well, then, I don’t see why you look so.” 

“ I’ve finished the task I was to do.” 

“ What! you haven’t ” — 

“I’m out of employment.” 

They went and sat down on the little haircloth sofa 
that Mrs. Riley had just left. 

“I thought they said they would have other work for 
you.” 

“They said they might have; but it seems they 
haven’t.” 

“And it’s just in the opening of summer, too,’' said 
Mary; “ why, what right ” — 

“ Oh ! ” — a despairing gesture and averted gaze — 
“ they’ve a perfect right if they think best. I asked them 
that myself at first — not too politely, either; but I soon 
saw I was wrong.” 

They sat without speaking until it had grown quite 
dark. Then John said, with a long breath, as he rose : — 


THE BOUGH BREAKS. 


88 


“ It passes my comprehension.” 

“ What passes it? asked Mary, detaining him by ons 
hand. 

“ The reason why we are so pursued by misfortunes.” 

“ But, John,” she said, still holding him, “ is it mis- 
I fortune ? When I know so well that you deserve to suc¬ 
ceed,! think maybe it’s good fortune in disguise, after all. 
Don’t you think it’s possible? You remember how it was 
last time, when A., B., & Co. failed. Maybe the best of 
all is to come now I ” She beamed with courage. “ Why, 
John, it seems to me I’d just go in the very best of spirits, 
the first thing to-morrow, and tell Dr. Sevier you are 
looking for work. Don’t you think H might ” — 

“ I’ve been there.” 

“ Have you ? What did he say ? ” 

“ He wasn’t in.” 

There was another neighbor, with whom John and Mary 
did not get acquainted. Not that it was more his fault 
than theirs; it may have been less. Unfortunately for 
the Richlings there was in their dwelling no toddling, 
self-appointed child commissioner to find his way in un¬ 
watched moments to the play-ground of some other 
toddler, and so plant the good seed of neighbor acquaint¬ 
anceship. 

This neighbor passed four times a day. A man of for¬ 
tune, aged a hale sixty or so, who came and stood on the 
corner, and sometimes even rested a foot on Mary’s door¬ 
step, waiting for the Prytania omnibus, .and who, on his 
returns, got down from the omnibus step a little gingerly, 
went by Mary’s house, an I presently shut himself inside a 
very ornamental iron gate, a short way up St. Mary street. 
A child would have made him acquainted. Even as i\ 
was, they did not escape his silent notice. It was pleasant 


DK. SEVIER. 


for him, from whos3 life the early dew had been dried 
away by a well-risen sun, to recall its former freshness 
by glimpses of this pair of young beginners. It was like 
having a bird’s nest under his window. 

John, stepping backward from his door one day, saying 
a last word to his wife, who stood on the threshold, 
pushed against this neighbor as he was moving with some¬ 
what cumbersome haste to catch the stage, turned quickly, 
and raised his hat. 

“ Pardon! ” 

The other uncovered his bald head and circlet of white, 
silken locks, and hurried on to the conveyance. 

‘ ‘ President of one of the banks down-town,” whispered 
John. 

That is the nearest they ever came to being acquainted. 
And even this accident might not have occurred had not 
the man of snowy locks been glancing at Mary as he 
passed instead of at his omnibus. 

As he sat at home that evening he remarked: — 

“Very pretty little woman that, my dear, that lives 
in the little house at the corner; who is she ? ” 

The lady responded, without lifting her eyes from the 
newspaper in which she was interested; she did not 
know. The husband mused and twirled his penknife 
between a finger and thumb. 

“ They seem to be starting at the bottom,” he observed. 

“Yes?” 

“Yes ; much the same as we did.” 

“ I haven’t noticed them particularly.” 

“ They’re worth noticing,” said the banker. 

He threw one fat knee over the other, and laid his head 
on the back of his easy-chair. 

The lady’s eyes were still on her paper, but sbi 
asked: — 


THE BOUGH BREAKS. 


91 


“ Would you -ike me to go and see them?” 

“No, no — unless you wish.** 

She dropped the paper into her lap with a smile and 
I sigh. 

“Don’t propose it. I have so much going to do**— 
She paused, removed her glasses, and fell to straightening 
the fringe of the lamp-mat. “ Of course, if you think 
they’re in need of a friend; but from your descrip¬ 
tion ** — 

“No,” he answered, quickly, “not at all. They’ve 
friends, no doubt. Everything about them has a neat, 
happy look. That’s what attracted my notice. They’ve 
got friends, you may depend.” He ceased, took up a 
pamphlet, and adjusted his glasses. “ I think I saw a 
sofa going in there to-day as I came to dinner. A little 
expansion, I suppose.” 

“It was going out,” said the only son, looking up from 
a story-book. 

But the banker was reading. He heard nothing, and 
the word was not repeated. He did not divine that a 
little becalmed and befogged bark, with only two lovers 
in her, too proud to cry “Help!” had drifted just 
yonder upon the rocks, and, spar by spar and plank by 
plank, was dropping into the smooth, unmerciful sea. 

Before the sofa went there had gone, little by little, 
some smaller valuables, 

“You see,” said Mary to her husband, with the bright 
hurry of a wife bent upon something high-handed, “ we 
both have to have furniture; we must have it; and 1 
don’t have to have jewelry. Don’t you see?” 

“No, I”— 

“Now, John!” There could be but one end to the 
debi.te ; she had determined that. The first piece was a 


92 


DE. SEVIER. 


bracelet. “ No, I wouldn’t pawn it,” she said. “ Bettei 
sell it outright at once.” 

But Richling could not but cling to hope and to the 
adornments that had so often clasped her wrists and 
throat or pinned the folds upon her bosom. Piece bv 
piece he pawned them, always looking out ahead with 
strained vision for the improbable, the incredible, to rise 
to his relief. 

“ Is nothing going to happen, Mary?” 

Yes ; nothing happened — except in the pawn-shop. 

So, all the sooner, the sofa had to go. 

‘‘ It’s no use talking about borrowing,” they both said. 
Then the bureau went. Then the table. Then, one by 
one, the chairs. Very slyly it was all done, too. 
Neighbors mustn’t know. “Who lives there?” is a 
question not asked concerning houses as small as theirs; 
and a young man, in a well-fitting suit of only too heavy 
goods, removing his winter hat to wipe the standing drops 
from his forehead; and a little blush-rose woman at his 
side, in a mist of cool muslin and the cunningest of 
millinery, — these, who always paused a moment, with 
a lost look, in the vestibule of the sepulchral-looking 
little church on the corner of Prytania and Josephine 
»treets, till the sexton ushered them in, and who as often 
3ontrived, with no end of ingenuity, despite the little 
jvoman’s fresh beauty, to get away after service unac 
costed by the elders,— who could imagine that these were 
from BO deep a nook in poverty’s vale ? 

There was one person who guessed it: Mrs. Riley, who 
was not asked to walk in any more when she called at tht 
twilight hour. She partly saw and partly guessed the 
truth, and offered what each one of the pair had been 
secretly hoping somebody, anybody, would offer — a loan 


THE BOUGH BREAKS 


93 


But when it actually confronted them it was sweetly 
declined. 

“ Wasn’t it kind? ” said Mary ; and John said emphati- 
cally, “Yes.” Very soon it was their turn to be kind to 
Mrs. Riley. They attended her husband’s funeral. He 
had been killed by an explosion. IMis. Riley beat upon 
the bier with her fists, and wailed in a far-reaching 
voice: — 

“ O Mike, Mike ! Me jew’l, me jew’l! Why didn’t ye 
wait to see the babe that’s unborn ? ” 

And Mary wept. And when she and John reentered 
their denuded house she fell upon his neck with fresh 
tears, and kissed him again and again, and could utter no 
word, but knew he understood. Poverty was so much 
better than sorrow! She held him fast, and he her, 
while he tenderly hushed her, lest a grief, the. very op¬ 
posite of Mrs. Riley’s, should overtake her. 


94 


DB. 8EYISB. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HARD SPEECHES AND HIGH TEMPER. 

D r. SEVIER found occasion, one morning, to speak 
at some length, and very harshly, to his book-keeper. 
He had hardly ceased when John Richling came briskly 
in. 

“ Doctor,” he said, with great buoyancy, “ how do you 
do?” 

The physician slightly frowned. 

“Good-morning, ]Mr. Richling.” 

Richling was tamed in an instant; but, to avoid too 
great a contrast of manner, he retained a semblance of 
sprightliness, as he said: — 

“This is the first time I have had this pleasure since 
you were last at our house. Doctor.” 

“ Did you not see me one evening, some time ago, in 
the omnibus ? ” asked Dr. Sevier. 

“ Why, no,” replied the other, with returning pleasure ; 
“ was I in the same omnibus?” 

“ You were on the sidewalk.” 

“ No-o,” said Richling, pondering. “ Fve seen you in 
your carriage several times, but you ”— 

“ I didn’t see you.” 

Richling was stung. The conversation failed. He 
recommenced it in a tone pitched intentionally too low 
for the alert ear of Narcisse. 

“ Doctor, I’ve simply called to say to you that I’m out 
of work and looking for employment again.” 


HABD SPEECHES AND HIGH TEMPER. 


95 


“Um — hum/^ said the Doctor, with a cold fulness of 
voice that hurt Richling afresh. “ You’ll find it hard to 
get anything this time of year,” he continued, with no 
attempt at undertone; “ it’s very hard for anybody to 
get anything these days, even when well recommended.” 

Richling smiled an instant. The Doctor did not, but 
turned partly away to his desk, and added, as if the smile 
had displeased him : — 

“ Well, maybe you’ll not find it so.” 

Richling turned fiery red. 

“Whether I do or not,” he said, rising, “my affaire 
sha’n’t trouble anybody. Good-morning I ” 

He started out. 

“How’s Mrs. Richling?” asked the Doctor. 

“She’s well,” responded Richling, putting on his hat 
and disappearing in the corridor. Each footstep could 
be heard as he went down the stairs 

“ He’s a fool! ” muttered the physician. 

He looked up angrily, for Narcisse stood before him. 

“Well, Doctah,” said the Creole, hurriedly arranging 
his coat-collar, and drawing his handkerchief, “ I’m goin’ 
ad the poss-oflSce.” 

“ See here, sir! ” exclaimed the Doctor, bringing his 
fist down upon the arm of his chair, “ every time you’ve 
gone out of this office for the last six months you’ve told 
me you were going to the post-office ; now don’t you ever 
tell me that again ! ” 

The young man bowed with injured dignity and re- 
iponded: — 

“ All a-ight, seh.” 

He overtook Richling just outside the street entrance. 
Richling had halted there, bereft of intention, almost of 
outward sense, and choking with bitterness. It seemed to 
him as if in an instant all his misfortunes, disappoint- 


DR. SEVIER. 


ments, and humiliations, that never before had seemed so 
many or so great, had been gathered up into the knowb 
edge of that hard man upstairs, and, with one unmerciful 
downward wrench, had received his seal of approval. 
Indignation, wrath, self-hatred, dismay, in undefined 
confusion, usurped the faculties of sight and hearing and 
motion. 

“ Mistoo Itchlin, * said Narcisse, “ I ’ope you fine 
you’seff O.K., seh, if you’ll egscuse the slang expwes- 
sion.” 

Richling started to move away, but checked himself. 

“ I’m well, sir, thank you, sir; yes, sir, I’m very well.” 

“ I billieve you, seh. You ah lookin’ well.” 

Narcisse thrust his hands into his pockets, and turned 
upon the outer sides of his feet, the embodiment of sweet 
temper. Richling found him a wonderful relief at the 
moment. He quit gnawing his lip and winking into 
vacancy, and felt a malicious good-humor run into all his 
veins. 

“ I dunno ’ow ’tis, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, 
“ but I muz tell you the tooth ; you always ’ave to me the 
appe’ance ligue the chile of p’ospe’ity.” 

“ Eh? ” said Richling, hollowing his hand at his ear,— 
“chUdof” — 

P’ospe’ity?” 

“Yes — yes,” replied the deaf man vaguely, “I — 
have a relative of that name.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed the Creole, “thass good faw luck\ 
Mistoo Itchlin, look’ like you a lil me’ hawd to yeh-^ 
but egsease me. I s’p)se you muz be advancing in 
Ousiness, Mistoo Itchlin. I say I s’pose you muz b€ 
gittin’ along! ” 

“I? Yes; yes, I must.” 

H3 started. 


HARD SPEECHES AND HIGH TEMPER. 


97 


“ I’m ’appy to yeh it! ” said Narcisse. 

His innocent kindness was a rebuke. Richling began 
to offer a cordial parting salutation, but Narcisse said; — 

“You goin’ that way? Well, I kin go that way.” 

They went. 

“ I was goin* ad the poss-office, but”— he waved his 
hand and curled his lip. “ Mistoo Itchlin, in fact, if 
you yeh of something suitable to me I would like to yeh 
it. 1 am not satisfied with that pless yondeh with Doctah 
Sevetah. I was compel this mawnin*, biffo you came in, 
to ’epoove ’im faw *is ’oodness. He called me a jackass, 
in fact. I woon allow that. I *ad to *epoove *im. 
‘ Doctah Seveeah,’ says I, ‘ don’t you call me a jackass 
ag’in! * An’ ’e din call it me ag’in. No, seh. But ’e 
din like to ’ush up. Thass the rizz’n ’e was a lil mis- 
cutteous to you. Me, I am always polite. As they say, 
‘ A nod is juz as good as a kick f’om a bline boss.’ You 
are fon’ of maxim, Mistoo Itchlin? Me, I’m ve’y fon’ 
of them. But they’s got one maxim what you may ’ave 
’eard — I do not fine that maxim always come t’ue. ’Ave 
you evva yeah that maxim, ‘A fool faw luck’? That 
don’t always come t’ue. I ’ave discove’d that.” 

“ No,” responded Richling, with a parting smile, “ that 
doesn’t always come true.” 

Dr. Sevier denounced the world at large, and the 
American nation in particular, for two days. Within 
himself, for twe ity-four hours, he grumly blamed Rich¬ 
ling for their r pture; then for twenty-four hours re¬ 
proached himse? , and, on the morning of the third day 
knocked at the loor, corner of St. Mary and Prytania. 

No one answe. ed. He knocked again. A woman in 
bare feet showed heiself at the corresponding door-way 
in the farther hall he house. 

Nobody don’t there no more, sir,” she said. 


98 


DE. SEVIEB. 


“ Where have they gone? ” 

“ Well, reely, I couldn’t tell you, sir. Secause, reely, 
I don’t know nothing about it. I haint but jest lately 
moved in here myself, and I don’t know nothing about 
nobody around here scarcely at all.” 

The Doctor shut himself again in his carriage and let 
aimself be whisked away, in great vacuity of mind. 

“ They can’t blame anybody but themselves,” was, by- 
\nd-by, his rallying thought. “ Still ” — he said to him¬ 
self after another vacant interval, and said no more. 
The thought that whether they could blame others or not 
did not cover all the ground, rested heavily on him. 


•raDB CaADLB FALiL2s. 


9 ^ 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE CRADLE FALLS. 

1 'N the rear of the great commercial centre of New 
Orleans, on that part of Common street where it sud¬ 
denly widens out, broad, unpaved, and dusty, rises the 
huge dull-brown structure of brick, famed, well-nigh as 
far as the city is known, as the Charity Hospital. 

Twenty-five years ago, when the emigrant ships used to- 
unload their swarms of homeless and friendless strangers 
into the streets of New Orleans to fall a prey to yellow- 
fever or cholera, that solemn pile sheltered thousands on 
thousands of desolate and plague-stricken Irish and 
Germans, receiving them unquestioned, until at times the 
very floors were covered with the sick and dying, and the 
rawing and hammering in the cofl3n-shop across the inner 
30 urt ceased not day or night. Sombre monument at 
once of charity and sin! For, while its comfort and 
snccor cost the houseless wanderer nothing, it lived and 
grew, and lives and grows still, upon the licensed vices of 
the people,— drinking, harlotry, and gambling. 

The Charity Hospital of St. Charles — such is its true 
name—is, however, no mere plague-house. Whether it 
ought to be, let doctors decide. How good or necessary 
such modern innovations as “ ridge ventilation,” “ mova¬ 
ble bases,” the “ pavilion plan,” “ trained nurses,” etc., 
may be, let the Auxiliary Sanitary Association say. 
There it stands as of old, innocent of all sins that may 
be involved in any of these changes, rising story ovei 


100 


DE. 8EVIEK. 


Story, up and up: here a ward for poisonous fevers, and 
there a ward for acute surgical cases; here a story full of 
simple ailments, and there a ward specially set aside for 
women. 

In 1857 this last was Dr. Sevier’s ward. Here, at his 
stated hour one summer morning in that year, he tarried 
a moment, yonder by that window, just where you enter 
the ward and before you come to the beds. He had fallen 
into discourse with some of the more inquiring minds 
among the train of studentb that accompained him, and 
waited there to finish and cool down to a physician’s 
proper temperature. The question was public sanitation. 

He was telling a tall Arkansan, with high-combed hair, 
self-conscious gloves, and very broad, clean-shaven lower 
jaw, how the peculiar formation of delta lands, by which 
they drain away from the larger watercourses, instead of 
into them, had made the swamp there in the rear of the 
town, for more than a century, “ the common dumping- 
ground and cesspool of the city, sir I ” 

Some of the students nodded convincedly to the 
speaker; some looked askance at the Arkansan, who put 
one forearm meditatively under hrs coat-tail; some 
looked through the window over the regions alluded to, 
and some only changed their pose and looked around for 
a mirror. 

The Doctor spoke on. Several of his hearers were 
really interested in the then unnsual subject, and listened 
intelligently as he pointed across the low plain at hundreds 
of acres of land that were nothing but a morass, parti} 
filled in with the foulest refuse of a semi-tropical city, and 
beyond it where still lay the swamp, half cleared of its 
forest and festering in the sun—“every drop of its 
waters, and every inch\of its mire,” said the Doctor, 
“saturated with the poisonous irainage of tlie town!* 


THE CRADLE FALLS. 


101 


I happen,” interjected a yonng city stndent; but th« 
others bent their ear to the Doctor, who continued: — 
Why, sir, were these regions compactly built on, like 
similar areas in cities confined to narrow sites, the mor 
tality, with the climate we have, would be frightful.” 

“ I happen to know,” essayed the city student; but the 
Arkansan had made an interrogatory answer to the 
Doctor, that led him to add: — 

“Why, yes; you see the houses here on these*lands 
are little, fiimsy, single ground-story affairs, loosely 
thrown together, and freely exposed to sun and air.” 

“ I hap—,” said the city student. 

“ And yet,” exclaimed the Doctor, “ Malaria is king! ” 

He paused an instant for his hearers to take in the 
figure. 

“ Doctor, I happen to ” — 

Some one’s fist from behind caused the speaker to turn 
angrily, and the Doctor resumed: — 

“ Gk) into any of those streets off yonder, — Tr4m6, 
Prieur, Marais. Why, there are often ponds under the 
houses I The floors of bedrooms are within a foot or 
two of these ponds I The bricks of the surrounding pave¬ 
ments are often covered with a fine, dark moss I Water 
seeps up through the sidewalks! That’s his realm, sir ’ 
Here and there among the residents — every here and 
there — you’ll see his sallow, quaking subjects dragging 
about their work or into and out of their beds, until a fear 
of a fatal ending drives them in here. Congestion? Tea, 
sometimes congestion pulls them under suddea’y, and 
they’re gone before they know it. Sometimes their vitality 
wanes slowly, until Malaria beckons in Consumption.” 

“Why, Doctor,” said the city student, ruffling with 
pride of his town, “there are plenty of cities as bad as 
this. I happen to know, for mstance ” — 


102 


DE. SEVIEK. 


Dr. Sevier turned away in quiet contempt. 

“ It will not improve our town to dirty others, or ta 
clean them, either.” 

He moved down the ward, while two or three memben 
among the moving train, who never happened to know any¬ 
thing, nudged each other joyfully. 

The group stretched out and came along, the Doctor 
first and the young men after, some of one sort, some of 
another, — the dull, the frivolous, the earnest, the kind, 
the cold, — following slowly, pausing, questioning, dis¬ 
coursing, advancing, moving from each clean, slender bed 
to the next, on this side and on that, down and up the 
long sanded aisles, among the poor, sick women. 

Among these, too, there was variety. Some were 
stupid and ungracious, hardened and dulled witli long 
penury as some in this world are hardened and dulled with 
long riches. Some were as fat as beggars ; some were old 
and shrivelled; some were shrivelled and young; some 
were bold; some were frightened; and here and there 
was one almost fair. 

Down at the far end of one aisle was a bed whose occu¬ 
pant lay watching the distant, slowly approaching group 
with eyes of unspeakable dread. There was not a word 
or motion, only the steadfast gaze. Gradually the 
throng drew near. The faces of the students could be 
distinguished. This one was coar&3 ; that one was gentle; 
another was sleepy; another trivial and silly; another 
heavy and sour; another tender and gracious. Presently 
the tones of the Doctor’s voice could be heard, soft, clear, 
and without that trumpet quality that it had beyond the 
sick-room. How slowly, yet how surely, they came! The 
patient’s eyes turned away toward the ceiling; they 
could not bear the slowness of the encounter They 
closed ; the lips moved in prayer. The group came to th« 


THE CRADLE FALLS. 


103 


bed that was only the fourth away; then to the third; 
then to the second. There they pause some minutes. Now 
the Doctor approaches the very next bed. Suddenly he 
notices this patient. She is a small woman, young, fair 
to see, and, with closed eyes and motionless form, is suf¬ 
fering an agony of consternation. One startled look, a 
suppressed exclamation, two steps forward, — the patient’s 
eyes slowly open. Ah, me ! It is Mary Richling. 

“Good-morning, madam,” said the physician, with a 
cold and distant bow; and to the students, “ We’ll pass 
right along to the other side,” and they moved into the 
next aisle. 

“ I am a little pressed for time this morning,” he pres¬ 
ently remarked, as the students showed some unwillingness 
to be hurried. As soon as he could he parted with them 
and returned to the ward alone. 

As he moved again down among the sick, straight along 
this time, turning neither to right nor left, one of the 
Sisters of Charity — the hospital and its so-called nurses 
are under their oversight — touched his arm. He stopped 
impatiently. 

“ Well, Sister” — (bowing his ear). 

“I — I — the — the” — His frown had scared away 
her power of speech. 

“Well, what is it. Sister?” 

“ The — the last patient down on this side ” — 

He was further displeased. “ Fll attend to the patients, 
Sister,” he said; and then, more kindly, “ I’m going there 
now. No, you stay here, if you please.” And he lefi 
her behind. 

He came and stood by the bed. The patient gazed on him. 

“ Mrs. Richling,” he softly began, and had to cease. 

She did not speak or move ; she tried to smile, but hei 
eyes filled, her lips quivered. 


104 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ My dear madam,” exclaimed the physician, in a loff 
voice, “ what brought you here?” 

The answer was inarticulate, but he saw it on the mov* 
ing Jps. 

Want,” said Mary. 

“ But your husband?” He stooped to catch the husky 
answer. 

“ Home.” 

“ Home? ” He could not understand. “ Not gone to 
—back — up the river?” 

She slowly shook her head: “No, home. In Prieui 
street.” 

Still her words were riddles. He could not see how she 
had come to this. He stood silent, not knowing how to 
utter his thought. At length he opened his lips to speak, 
hesitated an instant, and then asked : — 

“ ISIrs. Richling, teU me plainly, has your husband gone 
wrong ? ” 

Her eyes looked up, a moment, upon him, big and 
staring, and suddenly she spoke : — 

“ 0 Doctor! My husband go wrong? John go wrong?” 
The eyelids closed down, the head rocked slowly from side 
to side on the flat hospital pillow, and the first two tears 
he had ever seen her shed welled from the long lashes and 
slipped down her cheeks. 

“ My poor child I ” said the Doctor, taking her han.l in 
his. “ No, no! God forgive me ! He hasn’t gone wrong; 
he’s not going wrong. You’U tell me all about it when 
you’re stronger.” 

The Doctor had her removed to one of the private rooms 
of the pay-ward, and charged the Sisters to take special 
care of her. “Above all tilings,” he murmured, with a 
beetling frown, “ tell that thick-headed nurse not to lei 
her know that this is at anybody’s expense. Ah, yes ; and 


THE CRADLE FALLS. 


105 


f7hen her husband comes, tell him to see me at my office 
ns soon as he possibly can.” 

As he was leaving the hospital gate he had an after¬ 
thought “I might have left a note.” He paused, with 
his foot on the carriage-step. “ I suppose they’ll tell 
him,” — and so he got in and drove off, looking at his 
watch. 

On his second visit, although he came in with a quietlj 
inspiring manner, he had also, secretly, the feeling of a 
culprit. But, midway of the room, when the young head 
on the pillow turned its face toward him, his heart rose. 
For the patient smiled. As he drew nearer she slid out 
her feeble hand. “ I’m glad I came here,” she murmured. 

‘‘Yes,” he replied; “this room is much better than 
the open ward.” 

“ I didn’t mean this room,” she said. “ I meant the 
whole hospital.” 

“ The whole hospital! ” He raised his eyebrows, as to 
a child. 

“Ah! Doctor,” she responded, her eyes kindling, 
though moist. 

“ What, my child?” 

She smiled upward to his bent face. 

“The poor — mustn’t be ashamed of the poor, must 
they ? ” 

The Doctor only stroked her brow, and presently turned 
and addressed his professional inquiries to the nurse. Hef 
went away. Just outside the door he asked the nurse : — 

“ Hasn’t her husband been here ? ” 

“Yes,” was the reply, “but she was asleep, and he 
only stood there at the door and looked in a bit. He 
trembled,” the unintelligent woman added, for the Doctor 
seemed waiting to hear more, — “he trembled aU over; 


106 


DB« SjEi VUBB* 


and that’s all he did, excepting his saiying her name ovef 
to himself like, over and over, and wiping of his eyes.” 

“ And nobody told him anything?” 

“Oh, not a word, sir!” 3ame the eager answer. 

“ You didn’t tell him to come and see me?” 

The woman gave a start, looked dismayed, and 
began: — 

“ N-no, sir; you didn’t tell ” — 

“Um — hum,” growled the Doctor. He took out a 
card and wrote on it. “ Now see if you can remember to 
live bin that.” 


MAKT WATESS. 


107 


CHAPTER XVI. 


MANY WATERS. 



S the day faded away it began to rain. The next 


morning the water was coming down in torrents. 
Richling, looking out from a door in Prieur street, found 
scant room for one foot on the inner edge of the sidewalk; 
all the rest was under water. By noon the sidewalks 
were completely covered in miles of streets. By two in 
the afternoon the flood was coming into many of the 
houses. By three it was up at the door-sill on which he 
stood. There it stopped. 

He could do nothing but stand and look. Skiffs, 
canoes, hastily improvised rafts, were moving in every 
direction, carrying the unsightly chattels of the poor out 
of their overflowed cottages to higher ground. Barrels, 
boxes, planks, hen-coops, bridge lumber, piles of straw 
that waltzed solemnly as they went, cord-wood, old 
shingles, door-steps, floated here and there in melancholy 
confusion; and down upon all still drizzled the slackening 
rain. At length it ceased. 

Richling still stood in the door-way, the picture of mute 
helplessness. Yes, there was one other thing he could 
do; he could laugh. It would have been hard to avoid it 
sometimes, there were such ludicrous sights, — such slips 
and sprawls into the water; so there he stood in that 
peculiar isolation that deaf people content themselves 
with, now looking the picture of anxious waiting, now in¬ 
dulging a low, deaf man^s chuckle when something made 
the rowdies and slattens of the street roar. 


108 


DR. SEVIER 


Presently he noticed, at a distance up the way, a young 
man in a canoe, passing, much to their good-natured 
chagrin, a party of three in a skiff, who had engaged him 
in a trial of speed. From both boats a shower of hilari¬ 
ous French was issuing. At the nearest corner the skif 
party turned into another street and disappeared, throwing 
their lingual fireworks to the last. The canoe came 
straight on with the speed of a fish. Its dexterous occu¬ 
pant was no other than Narcisse. 

There was a grace in his movement that kept Richling^s 
eyes on him, when he would rather have withdrawn into 
the house. Down went the paddle always on the same 
side, noiselessly, in front; on darted the canoe ; backward 
stretched the submerged paddle and came out of the water 
edgewise at full reach behind, with an almost impercepti¬ 
ble swerving motion that kept the slender craft true to its 
course. No rocking ; no rush of water before or behind; 
only the one constant glassy ripple gliding on either side 
as silently as a beam of light. Suddenly, without any 
apparent change of movement in the sinewy wrists, the 
narrow shell swept around in a quarter circle, and Nar¬ 
cisse sat face to face with Richling. 

Each smiled brightly at the other. The handsome Cre¬ 
ole’s face was aglow with the pure delight of existence. 

“Well, ^iistoo Itchlin, ’ow you enjoyin’ that watah? 
As fah as myseff am concerned, ‘ I am afloat, I am afloat 
on the fee-us ’oiling tide.’ I don’t think you fine that 
stweet pwetty dusty to-day, Mistoo Itchlin ? ” 

Richling laughed. 

“ It don’t inflame my eyes to-day,” he said. 

“ You muz egscuse my i’ony, Mistoo Itchlin; I can’t 
’ep that sometime’. It come natu’al to me, m fact. I 
was on’y speaking i'oniously juz now in calling aUusioo 
to that dust; because, of co’se, theh s no dust to-day, 


MANY WATERS. 


109 


because the g’ound is all cowud with watah, in fact. 
Some people don’t understand that figgah of i’ony.” 

“ I don’t understand as much about it myself as I’d like 
to,” said Richling. 

“ Me, I’m ve’y fon’ of it,” responded the Creole. “1 
was making seve’al i’onies ad those fwen’ of mine juz now. 
We was ’unning a ’ace. An’ thass anotheh thing I am 
fon’ of. I would ’ather ’un a ’ace than to wuck faw a 
livin’. Ha ! ha! ha ! I should thing so! Anybody would, 
in fact. But thass the way with me — always making 
some i’onies.” He stopped with a sudden change of 
countenance, and resumed gravely: “ Mistoo Itchlin, 
looks to me like you’ lookin’ ve’y salad.” He fanned him¬ 
self with his hat. “I dunno ’ow ’tis with you, Mistoo 
Itchlin, but I fine myseff ve’y oppwessive thiz evening.” 

“ I don’t find you so,” said Richling, smiling broadly. 

And he did not. The young Creole’s burning face and 
resplendent wit were a sunset glow in the darkness of this 
day of overpowering adversity. His presence even sup¬ 
plied, for a moment, what seemed a gleam of hope. Why 
wasn’t there here an opportunity to visit the hospital? 
He need not tell Narcisse the object of his visit. 

“ Do you think,” asked Richling, persuasively, crouch 
ing down upon one of his heels, “ that I could sit in that 
thing without turning it over ? ” 

“In that pee-ogue?” Narcisse smiled the smile of 
tlie proficient as he waved his paddle across the canoe. 
“Mistoo Itchlin,” — the smile passed off, — “I dunno 
if you’ll billiv me, but at the same time I muz tell you the 
tooth ? ” — 

He paused inquiringly. 

“Certainly,” said Richling, with evident iisappoint 
ment. 

“ W’ell, it’s juz a poss’bil’ty that you’ll wefwain fum 


110 


DR, fiBVIEB, 


spillin^ out fum yeh till the negs cawneh. lhass the 
manneh of those who ah not acquainted with the pee-ogue. 
‘ Lost to sight, to memo’y deah * — if you’ll egscuse the 
maxim. Thass Chawles Dickens mague use of that egs- 
pwession.” 

Richling answered with a gay shake of the head. “ I’h 
keep out of it.” If Narcisse detected his mortified cha¬ 
grin, he did not seem to. It was hard; the day’s ksl 
hope was blown out like a candle in the wind. Richling 
dared not risk the wetting of his suit of clothes; they 
were his sole letter of recommendation and capital in 
trade. 

“Well, au'evoi\ Mistoo Itchlin.” He turned and moved 
off — dip, glide, and away. 

Dr. Sevier stamped his wet feet on the pavement of the 
hospital porch. It was afternoon of the day following 
that of the rain. The water still covering the streets 
about the hospital had not prevented his carriage from 
splashing through it on his double daily round. A nar¬ 
row and unsteady plank spanned the immersed sidewalk. 
Three times, going and coming, he had crossed it safely, 
and this fourth time he had made half the distance weU 
enough ; but, hearing distant cheers and laughter, he looked 
up street; when — splatter I — and the cheers were re¬ 
doubled. 

“Pretty thing to laugh at!” he muttered. Two or 
three bystanders, leaning on their umbrellas in the lodge 
at the gate and in the porch, where he stood stamping, 
turned their backs and smoothed their mouths. 

“Hah!” said the tall Doctor, stamping harder 
Stamp!—stamp! He shook his leg.—“Bah!” He 
stamped the other long, slender, wet foot and looked down 
at it, turning one side and then the other. — “ F-fah ! — 


MANY WATERS. 


Ill 


The first one again. — ‘ ‘ Psha ! — The other. — ^tamp 1 
— stamp ! — “ Right — into it! — up to my ankles I ” He 
looked around with a slight scowl at one man, who seemed 
taken with a sudden softening of the spine and knees, 
and who turned his hack quickly and fell against another, 
who, also with his hack turned, was leaning tremulously 
against a pillar. 

But the object of mirth did not tarry. He went as he 
was to Mary’s room, and found her much better — as, 
indeed, he had done at every visit. He sat by her bed 
and listened to her story. 

“Why, Doctor, you see, we did nicely for a while. 
John went on getting the same kind of work, and pleasing 
everybody, of course, and all he lacked was finding some¬ 
thing permanent. Still, we passed through one month 
after another, and we really began to think the sun was 
coming out, so to speak.” 

“Well, I thought so, too,” put in the Doctor. “I 
thought if it didn’t you’d let me know.” 

“Why, no. Doctor, we couldn’t do that; you couldn’t 
be taking care of well people.” 

“Well,” said the Doctor, dropping that point, “I 
suppose as the busy season began to wane that mode of 
livelihood, of course, disappeared.” 

“Yes,” — a little one-sided smile, — “and so did our 
money. And then, of course,” — she slightly lifted and 
waved her hand. 

“ You had to live,” said Dr. Sevier, sincerely. 

She smiled again, with abstracted eyes. “We thought 
we’d like to,” she said. “ I didn’t mind the loss of the 
things so much, — except the little table we ate from. 
You remember that little round table, don’t you?” 

The visitor had not the heart to say no He nodded. 


112 


DB. SEVEEK. 


“ When that went there was but one thing left that 
could go.” 

“ Not your bed? ” 

“The bedstead; yes.” 

“ You didn’t sell your bed, Mrs. Richling?” 

The tears gushed from her eyes. She made a sign of 
assent. 

“But then,” she resumed, “ we made an excellent ar¬ 
rangement with a good woman who had just lost her 
husband, and wanted to live cheaply, too.” 

“ WTiat amuses you, madam?” 

“Nothing great. But I wish you knew her. She’s 
funny. Well, so we moved down-town again. Didn’t 
cost much to move.” 

She would smile a little in spite of him. 

“ And then?” said he, stirring impatiently and leaning 
forward. ‘‘ WTiat then ? ” 

“ WTiy, then I worked a little harder than I thought, — 
pulling trunks around and so on, — and I had this third 
attack.” 

The Doctor straightened himself up, folded his arms, 
and muttered: — 

“ Oh! — oh! Why wasn’t I instantly sent for ? ” 

The tears were in her eyes again, but — 

“ Doctor,” she answered, with her odd little argument¬ 
ative smile, “how could we? We had nothing to pay 
with. It wouldn’t have been just.’' 

, “ Just! ” exclaimed the physician, angrily. 

“ Doctor,” said the invalid, and looked at him. 

“Oh — all right! ” 

She made no answer but to look at him stiU more 
pleadingly. 

“ Wouldn’t it have been just as fair to let me be gener- 


AIANY WATEBS. 


113 


ous, madam?” His faint smile was bitter. “For once? 
Simply for once ? ” 

“We couldn’t make that proposition, could we, Doc¬ 
tor?” 

He was checkmated. 

“ Mrs. Richling,” he said suddenly, clasping the back 
of his chair as if about to rise, “teU me,—did you or 
your husband act this way for anything Fve ever said 
or done?” 

“ No, Doctor I no, no; never I But ” — 

“ But kindness should seek — not be sought,” said the 
physician, starting up. 

“ No, Doctor, we didn’t look on it so. Of course we 
didn’t. If there’s any fault it’s aU mine. For it was my 
own proposition to John, that as we had to seek charity 
we should just be honest and open about it. I said, 
‘ John, as I need the best attention, and as that can be 
offered free only in the hospital, why, to the hospital I 
ought to go.’ ” 

She lay still, and the Doctor pondered. Presently he 
said: — 

“And IVIr. Richling — I suppose he looks for work all 
the time ? ” 

“ From daylight to dark I ” 

“Well, the water is passing off. He’ll be along by 
and by to see you, no doubt. Tell him to call, first thing 
to-morrow morning, at my office.” And with that the 
Doctor went off in his wet boots, committed a aeries of 
indiscretions, reached home, and fell ill. 

In the wanderings of fever he talked of the Richlings, 
and in lucid moments inquired for them. 

“Yes, yes,” answered the sick Doctor’s physician, 
“they’re attended to. Yes, ail their wants are supplied. 
Just dismiss them from your mind.” In the eyes of this 


il4 


DR. SEVIER. 


physkian the Doctor’s life was invaluable, and lhefl€ 
patients, or pensioners, an unknown and, most Ikely, an 
inconsiderable quantity; two spaiTOws, as it were, 
worth a farthing. But the sick man lay thinking. He 
frowned. 

“ I wish they would go home.” 

“ I have sent them.” 

“You have? Home to Milwaukee?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thank God I ” 

He soon began to mend. Yet it was weeks before he 
could leave the house. When one day he reentered the 
hospital, still pale and faint, he was prompt to express to 
the Mother-Superior the comfort he had felt in his sick¬ 
ness to know that his brother physician had sent those 
Richlings to their kindred. 

The Sister shook her head. He saw the deception in 
an instant. As best his strength would allow, he hurried 
to the keeper of the rolls. There was the truth. Home? 
Yes, — to Prieur street, — discharged only one week 
before. He drove quickly to his office. 

“ Narcisse, you wiU find that young Mr. Richling living 
in Prieur street, somewhere between Conti and St. Louis. 
I don’t know the house ; you’ll have to find it. TeU him 
I’m in my office again, and to come and see me.” 

Narcisse was no such fool as to say he knew the house. 
He would get the praise of finding it quickly. 

“ I’ll do my mose awduous, seh,” he said, took down 
his coat, hung up his jacket, put on his hat, and went 
straight to the house and knocked. Got no answer. 
Knocked again, and a third time; but in vain. Went 
next door and inquired of a pretty girl, who fell in love 
with him at a glance. 

“Yes, but they had moved. She wasn’t jess ezac^ly 


MANT WATES8. 


115 


sure where they had moved to, unless-n it was in that lit¬ 
tle hmse yondeh between St. Louis and Toulouse ; and if 
they wasnT there she didn’t know where they was. 
People ought to leave words where they’s movin’ at, but 
they don’t. You’re very welcome,” she added, as he ex¬ 
pressed his thanks ; and he would have been welcome had 
he questioned her for an hour. His parting bow and 
smile stuck in her heart a six-months. 

He went to the spot pointed out. As a Creole he was 
used to seeing verv respectable people living in very small 
and plain houses This one was not too plain even foi 
his ideas of Richling, though it was but a little one-street- 
door-and-window affair, with an alley on the left running 
back into the small yard behind. He knocked. Again 
no one answered. He looked down the alley and saw, 
moving about the yard, a large woman, who, he felt cer¬ 
tain, could not be IVIrs. Richling. 

Two little short-skirted, bare-legged girls were playing 
near him. He spoke to them in French. Did they know 
where Monsieu’ Itchlin lived? The two children re¬ 
peated the name, looking inquiringly at each other. 

“ Aon, miche.” — “ No, sir, they didn’t know.” 

“ Qui reste iciV he asked. “ Who lives here?” 

IciP Madame qui reste Id c^est Mizziz Ei-i-i-ly!** 
said one. 

‘‘ Yass,” said the other, breaking into English and rub¬ 
bing a musquito off of her weU-tanned shank with the sole 
of her foot, “ tis Mizziz Ri-i-i-ly what live there. She 
jess move cen. She’s got a liU baby.—Oh I you means 
Jat lady what was in de Chatty Hawspill I ” 

“No, no! A real, nice lady. She nevva saw that 
Cha’ity Hospi’l.” 

The little girls shook their heads. They couldn’t imag- 
Ine a person who had never seen the Charity Hospital. 


116 


DR. BEVDER. 


“Was there nobody else who had moved into any ol 
these houses about here lately?” He spoke again in 
French. They shook their heads. Two boys came for¬ 
ward and verified the testimony. Narcisse went back 
with his report: “ Moved, — not found.” 

“ I fine that ve’y d’oU, Doctah Seveeah,” concluded the 
unaugmented, hanging up his hat; “ some peop’ always 
’ard to fine. I h-even notiz that sem thing w’en I go to 
colic’ some bill. I dunno ’ow’ tis, Doctah, but I assu’ you 
I kin tell that by a man’s physio’nomy. Nobody teach 
me that. ’Tis my own ingfeewu’ty ’as made me to discoveh 
that, in fact.” 

The Doctor was silent. Presently he drew a piece of 
paper toward him and, dipping his pen into the ink, began 
to write: — 

“ Information wanted of the whereabouts of John 
Richling” — 

“ Narcisse,” he called, stiU writing, “ I want you to 
take an advertisement to the ‘Picayune’ ofiSce.” 

“ With the gweatez of pleazheh, seh.” The clerk 
began his usual shifting of costume. “ Yesseh! I assu’ 
you, Doctah, that is a p’oposition moze enti’ly to my sat- 
izfagtion; faw I am suffe’ing faw a smoke, and deztitute 
of a ciga’ette! I am aztonizh’ ’ow I did that, to egs- 
hauz them unconsciouzly, in fact.” He received the 
advertisement in an envelope, whipped his shoes a little 
with his handkerchief, and went out. One would think 
to hear him thundering down the stairs, that it was 
twenty-five cents’ worth of ice. 

‘ Hold o—” The Doctor started from his seat, then 
turned and paced feebly up and down. Who, besides 
Richling, might see that notice? What might be its un¬ 
expected results? Who was John Richling? A man 
with a secret at the best; and a secret, in Dr. Bevier’a 


MANY WATERS. 


in 


eyes, was detestable. Might not Richling be a man who 
had fled from something? “No! no!” The Doctoi 
spoke aloud. He had promised to think notliing ill of 
him. Let the poor children have their silly secret. He 
•poke again: “ They’ll find out the folly of it by and 
hy.” He let the adyertisement go ; and it went 


ilS 


DR. SEYIER. 


CHAPTER xvn 

RAPHAEL RISTOFALO. 

R ICHLING had a dollar in his pocket. A man touched 
him on the shoulder. 

But let us see. On the day that John and Mary had 
sold their only bedstead, LIrs. Riley, watching them, had 
proposed the joint home. The offer had been accepted 
with an eagerness that showed itself in nervous laughter. 
Mrs. Riley then took quarters in Prieur street, where John 
and Mary, for a due consideration, were given a single 
neatly furnished back room. The bedstead had brought 
seven dollars. Richling, on the day after the removal, 
was in the commercial quarter, looking, as usual, for em¬ 
ployment. 

The young man whom Dr. Sevier had first seen, in 
the previous October, moving with a springing step and 
alert, inquiring glances from number to number in Caron- 
delet street was slightly changed. His step was firm, 
but something less elastic, and not quite so hurried. His 
face was more thoughtful, and his glance wanting in a 
certain dancing freshness that had been extremely pleas¬ 
ant. He was walking in Poydras street toward the river. 

As he came near to a certain man who sat in the 
entrance of a store with the freshly whittled comer of a 
chair between his knees, his look and bow were grave, but 
amiable, quietly hearty, deferential, and also self-respect¬ 
ful — and uncommercial: so palpably uncommercial that 
the sitter did not rise or even shut his knife. 


EAPHAEL RI8T0FAL®. 11^ 

He slightly stared. Richling, in a low, private tone, 
fras asking him for employment. 

“ What?” turning his ear up and frowning downward. 

The application was repeated, the first words with a 
slightly resentful ring, but the rest more quietly. 

The store-keeper stared again, and shook his head 
slowly. 

“ No, sir,” he said, in a barely audible tone. Richling 
moved on, not stopping at the next place, or the next, or 
the next; for he felt the man’s stare all over his back 
until he turned the corner and found himself in Tchoupi- 
toulas street. Nor did he stop at the first place around 
the corner. It smelt of deteriorating potatoes and up¬ 
river cabbages, and there were open barrels of onions 
set ornamentally aslant at the entrance. He had a fatal 
conviction that his services would not be wanted in mal¬ 
odorous places. 

“ Now, isn’t that a shame ? ” asked the chair-whittler, as 
Richling passed out of sight. “ Such a gentleman as 
that, to be beggin’ for work from door to door I ” 

“ He’s not beggin’ f’om do’ to do’,” said a second, with 
a Creole accent on his tongue, and a match stuck behind 
his ear like a pen. “ Beside, he’s too much of a gennle- 
mun.” 

“ That’s where you and him differs,” said the first. He 
frowned upon the victim of his delicate repartee with 
make-believe defiance. Number Two drew from an out¬ 
side coat-pocket a wad of common brown wrapping-paper, 
tore from it a small, neat parallelogram, dove into an 
opposite pocket for some loose smoking-tobacco, laid a 
pinch of it in the paper, and, witli a single dexterous turn 
of the fingers, thumbs above, the rest beneath, — it looks 
simple, but ’tis an amazing art, —made a cigarette Then 
he took down his match, struck it under his short coat- 


120 


DK. «EVUKli. 


skirt, lighted his cigarette, drew an inhalation through il 
that consumed a third of its length, and sat there, with 
his eyes half-closed, and all that smoke somewhere inside 
of him. 

“ That young man,” remarked a third, wiping a tooth¬ 
pick on his thigh and putting it in his vest-pocket, as he 
stepped to the front, “ don’t know how to look fur work. 
There’s one way fur a day-laborer to look fur work, and 
there’s another way fur a gentleman to look fur work, and 
there’s another way fur a — a — a man with money to 
look fur somethin’ to put his money into. It's just like 
fishing / ” He threw both hands outward and downward, 
and made way for a porter’s truck with a load of green 
meat. The smoke began to fall from Number Two’s 
nostrils in two slender blue streams. Number Three 
continued: — 

“ You’ve got to know what kind o’ hooks you want, 
and what kind o’ bait you want, and then, after that^ 
you’ve ” — 

Numbers One and Two did not let him finish. 

“ — Got to know how to fish,” they said; “ that’s so! ” 
The smoke continued to leak slowly from Number Two’s 
nostrils and teeth, though he had not lifted his cigarette 
the second time. 

“Yes, you’ve got to know how to fish,” reaffirmed the 
third. “ If you don’t know how to fish, it’s as like as 
not that nobody can tell you what’s the matter; an’ yet, 
all the same, you aint goin’ to ketch no fish.” 

“ Well, now,” said the first man, with an unconvinced 
swing of his chin, “ spunk ’ll sometimes puU a man 
through; and you can’t say he aint spunky.” Number 
Three admitted tlie corollary. Number Two looked up; 
his chance had come. 

“ He’d a w’ipped you faw a dime,” said he to Number 


RAPHAEL RISTOFALO. 


121 


One, took a comforting draw from his cigarette, and felt 
a great peace. 

“ I take notice he’s a little deaf,” said Number Three, 
I till alluding to Eichling. 

“ That’d spoil him for me,” said Number One. 

Number Three asked why. 

“ Oh, I just wouldn’t have him about me. Didn’t 
you ever notice that a deaf man always seems like a 
sort o’ stranger? I can’t bear ’em.” 

Richling meanwhile moved on. His critics were right. 
He was not wanting in courage; but no man from the 
moon could have been more an alien on those sidewalks. 
He was naturally diligent, active, quick-witted, and of 
good, though maybe a little too scholarly address; quick 
of temper, it is true, and uniting his quickness of temper 
with a certain bashfulness, — an unlucky combination, 
since, as a consequence, nobody had to get out of its 
way; but he was generous in fact and in speech, and 
never held malice a moment. But, besides the heavy 
odds which his small secret seemed to be against him, 
estopping him from accepting such valuable friendships 
as might otherwise have come to him, and besides his 
slight deafness, he was by nature a recluse, or, at least, 
a dreamer. Every day that he set foot on Tchoupitoulas, 
or Carondelet, or Magazine, or Fulton, or Poydras street 
he came from a realm of thought, seeking service in an 
empire of matter. 

There is a street in New Orleans called Triton WoXk. 
That is what all the ways of commerce and finance and 
daily bread-getting were to Richling. He was a merman 
—ashore. It was the feeling rather than the knowledge 
of this that prompted him to this daily, aimless trudging 
after mere employment. He had a proper pride; once 
m a while a little too much; nor did he clearly see hia 


122 


DR. SEVIER. 


deficiencies; and yet the unrecognized consciousnesi 
that he had not the commercial instinct made him willing 
— as Number Three would have said — to “cut bait” 
for any fisherman who would let him do it. 

He turned without any distinct motive and, retracing 
his steps to the corner, passed up across Poydras street. 
A little way above it he paused to look at some machin¬ 
ery in motion. He liked machinery, — for itself rathei 
than for its results. He would have gone in and ex¬ 
amined the workings of this apparatus had it not been 
for the sign above his head, “ No Admittance.” Those 
words always seemed painted for nim. A slight modi¬ 
fication in Richling’s character might have made him an 
inventor. Some other faint difference, and he might 
have been a writer, a historian, an essayist, or even — 
there is no telling — a well-fed poet. With the question 
of food, raiment, and shelter permanently settled, he 
might have become one of those resplendent flash lights 
that at intervals dart their beams across tlie dark waters 
of the world’s ignorance, hardly from new continents, 
but from the observatory, the stud}", th^.laboratory. But 
he was none of these. There had beeA a crime com¬ 
mitted somewhere in his bringing up, and as a result he 
stood in the thick of life’s battle, weaponless. He gazed 
upon machinery with childlike wonder; but when he 
looked around and saw on every hand men, —good fel ’ 
lows who ate in their shirt-sleeves at restaurants, told 
broad jokes, spread their mouths and smote their sides 
when they laughed, and whose best wit was to bombard 
one another with bread-crusts and hide behind the sugar- 
bowl ; men whom he could have taught in every kind 
of knowledge ^hat they were capable of grasping, except 
the knowledge\^ of\ how to get money, — when he saw 
these men, as it seemed to him, grow rich daily by 


BAFHAEL RISTOrALO. 


123 


Bimply flipping beans into each other’s faces, or slapping 
each other on the back, the wonder of machinery was 
eclipsed. Doas they did? He? He could no more reach 
a conviction as to what the price of corn would be to¬ 
morrow than he could remember what the price of sugar 
was yesterday. 

He called himself an accountant, gulping down his 
•ecret pride with an amiable glow that commanded, in¬ 
stantly, an amused esteem. And, to judge by his evident 
familiarity with Tonti’s beautiful scheme of mercantile 
records, he certainly—those guessed whose books he 
had extricated from confusion — had handled money and 
money values in days before his unexplained coming to 
New Orleans. Yet a close observer would have noticed 
that he grasped these tasks only as problems, treated 
them in their mathematical and enigmatical aspect, and 
solved them without any appreciation of their concrete 
values. When they were done he felt less personal in¬ 
terest in them than in the architectural beauty of the 
store-front, whose window-shutters he had never helped 
to close without a little heart-leap of pleasure. 

But, standing thus, and looking in at the machinery, 
a man touched him on the shoulder. 

“ Good-morning,” said the man. He wore a pleasant 
air. It seemed to say, “I’m nothing much, but you’ll 
recognize me in a moment; I’ll wait.” He was short, 
square, solid, beardless; in years, twenty-five or six. 
His skin was dark, his hair almost black, his eyebrows 
strong. In his mild black eyes you could see the whole 
Mediterranean. His dress was coarse, but clean; his 
linen soft and badly laundered. But under all the rough 
garb and careless, laughing manner was visibly written 
again and again the name of the race that once held the 
world under its feet. 


4 


124 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ You don't remember me?” he added, after a moment. 

“No,'' said Richling, pleasantly, but with embarrass¬ 
ment. The man waited another moment, and suddenly 
Richling recalled their earlier meeting. The man, repre¬ 
senting a wholesale confectioner in one of the smaller 
cities up the river, had bought some cordials and syrups 
of the house whose books Richling had last put in order. 

“ Why, yes I do, too I'' said Richling. “ You left 
your pocket-book in my care for two or three days ; your 
own private money, you said.'' 

“ Yes.'' The man laughed softly. “ Lost that money. 
Sent it to the boss. Boss died — store seized — every¬ 
thing gone.'' His English was well pronounced, but did 
not escape a pretty Italian accent, too delicate for the 
printer's art. 

“ Oh! that was too bad I'' Richling laid his hand upon 
an awning-post and twined an arm and leg around it as 
though he were a vine. “I — I forget your name.'' 

“ Ristofalo. Raphael Ristofalo. Yours is Richling. 
Yes, knocked me flat. Not got cent in world." The 
Italian's low, mellow laugh claimed Richling's admiration. 

“ Why, when did that happen?” he asked. 

“ Yes'day,” replied the other, still laughing. 

“ And how are you going to provide for the future? " 
Richling asked, smiling down into the face of the shorter 
man. The Italian tossed the future away with the back 
of his hand. 

“ I got nothin' do with that.” His words were low, but 
very distinct. 

Thereupon Richling laughed, leaning his cheek against 
the post. 

“ Must provide for the present,” said Raphael Ristofalo 
Richling dropped his eyes in thought. The present I He 
had never been able to see that it was the present whicte 


BAPHAEL RISTOFALO. 


125 


must be provided against, until, while he was training hia 
guns upon the future, the most primitive wants of the 
present burst upon him right and left like whooping 
savages. 

“ Can you lend me dollar ? ” asked the Italian. “ Give 
you back dollar an* quarter to-morrow.*’ 

Richling gave a start and let go the post. “ Why, Mr 
Risto — falo, I — I—, the fact is, I** — he shook hia 
head— “ I haven’t much money.” 

“ Dollar will start me,” said the Italian, whose feet 
had not moved an inch since he touched Richling’s 
shoulder. “ Be aw righ* to-morrow.” 

“ You can’t invest one dollar by itself,” said the in¬ 
credulous Richling. 

“ Yes. Return her to-morrow.” 

Richling swung his head from side to side as an expres¬ 
sion of disrelish. “ I haven’t been employed for some 
time.” 

“I goin’ t’employ myself,” said Ristofalo. 

Richling laughed again. There was a faint betrayal of 
distress in his voice as it fell upon the cunning ear of the 
Italian; but he laughed too, very gently and innocently, 
and stood in his tracks. 

“ I wouldn’t like to refuse a dollar to a man who needs 
it,” said Richling. He took his hat off and ran his fingers 
through his hair. “ I’ve seen the time when it was much 
easier to lend than it is just now.” He thrust his hand 
down into his pocket and stood gazing at the sidewalk. 

The Italian glanced at Richling askance, and with one — 
sweep of the eye from the softened crown of his hat 
to the slender, white bursted slit in the outer side ot 
either well-polished shoe, took in the beauty of his face 
and a full understanding of his condition. His hair, some¬ 
what dry, bad fallen upon his forehead. His fine, smootl; 


126 


DR. SEVIER. 


skin was darkened by the exposure of his daily wander 
ings. His cheek-bones, a trifle high, asserted their place 
above the softly concave cheeks. His mouth was closed 
and the lips were slightly compressed; the chin small, 
graeefully turned, not weak, — not strong. His eyes were 
abstracted, deep, pensive. His dress told much. The 
fine plaits of his shirt had sprung apart and been neatly 
sewed together again. His coat was a little faulty in the 
set of the collar, as if the person who had taken the gar¬ 
ment apart and turned the goods had not put it together 
again with practised skill. It was without spot and the 
buttons were new. The edges of his shirt-cuffs had been 
trimmed with the scissors. Face and vesture alike re¬ 
vealed to the sharp eye of the Italian the woe underneath. 
“ He has a wife,” thought Ristofalo. 

Richling looked up with a smile. “ How can you be 
so sure you will make, and not lose ? ” 

“ I never fail.” There was not the least shade of 
boasting in the man’s manner. Richling handed out his 
dollar. It was given without patronage and taken with 
simple thanks. 

“Where goin’ to meet to-morrow morning?” asked 
Ristofalo. “ Here ? ” 

“ Oh I I forgot,” said Richling. “ Yes, I suppose so j 
and then you’ll tell me how you invested it, will you ? ” 

“ Yes, but you couldn’t do it.” 

“Why not?” 

Raphael Ristofalo laughed. ‘ Oh I fifty reason*.” 


HOW HE DID IT. 


la? 


CHAPTER xvm. 


HOW HE DED IT. 


B ISTOFALO and Richling had hardly separated, 
when it occurred to the latter that the Italian had 


first touched him from behind. Had Ristofalo recognized 
him with his back turned, or had he seen him earlier and 
followed him ? The facts were these: about an hour 
before the time when Richling omitted to apply for em¬ 
ployment in the ill-smelling store in Tchoupitoulas street, 
Mr. Raphael Ristofalo halted in front of the same place, 
— which appeared small and slovenly among its more 
pretentious neighbors, — and stepped just inside the door 
to where stood a single barrel of apples, — a fruit only the 
earliest varieties of which were beginning to appear in 
market. These were very small, round, and smooth, and 
with a rather wan blush confessed to more than one of 
the senses that they had seen better days. He began to 
pick them up and throw them down — one, two, three, 
four, seven, ten; about half of them were entirely sound 

“ How many barrer like this ? ” 

“No got-a no more; dass all,” said the dealer. He 
was a Sicilian. “Lame duck,” he added. “Oal de 
rest gone.” 

“How much?” asked Ristofalo, still handling the 
fruit. 

The Sicilian came to the barrel, looked in, and said, 
w th a gesture of indifference: — 

“^M —doir an* *alf.” 


128 


DR. SEVIER. 


Ristofalo offered to take them at a dollar if he might 
wash and sort them under the dealer’s hydrant, which 
could be heard running in the back 3 "ard. The offer 
would have been rejected with rude scorn but for one 
thing: it was spoken in Italian. The man looked at 
him with pleased surprise, and made the concession. 
The porter of the store, in a red worsted cap, had drawn 
near. Ristofalo bade him roll the barrel on its chine 
to the rear and stand it by the hydrant. 

“ I will come back pretty soon,” he said, in Italian, 
and went awa^'. 

By and by he returned, bringing with him two swarthy, 
heavy-set, little Sicilian lads, each with his inevitable 
basket and some clean rags. A smile and gesture to the 
store-keeper, a word to the boys, and in a moment the 
barrel was upturned, and the pair were washing, wiping, 
and sorting the sound and unsound apples at the hydrant. 

Ristofalo stood a moment in the entrance of the store. 
The question now was where to get a dollar. Richling 
passed, looked in, seemed to hesitate, went on, turned, 
and passed again, the other way. Ristofalo saw him all 
the time and recognized him at once, but appeared not to 
observe him. 

“He will do,” thought the Italian. “Be back few 
minute’,” he said, glancing behind him. 

“ Or-r righ’,” said the store-keeper, with a hand-wave 
1 of good-natured confidence. He recognized Mr. Raphael 
Ristofalo’s species. 

The Italian walked up across Poydras street, saw 
llichling stop and look at the machinery, approached, 
and touched him on the shoulder. 

C^u parting with him he did not return to the store 
where he had left the apples. He walked up Tchoupi- 
toulas street about a mile, and where St. Thomas street 


HOW HE DID IT. 


12S 


branches acutely from it, in a squalid district fill of the 
poorest Irish, stopped at a dirty fruit-stand and spoke 
in Spanish to its Catalan proprietor. Half an hour later 
twenty-five cents had changed hands, the Catalan’s fruii 
shelves were bright with small pyramids — sound side 
foremost — of Ristofalo’s second grade of apples, the 
Sicilian had Richling’s dollar, and the Italian was gone 
with his boys and his better grade of fruit. Also, a grocer 
had sold some sugar, and a druggist a little paper of 
some harmless confectioner’s dj^e. 

Down behind the French market, in a short,^ obscure 
street that runs from Ursulines to Barracks street, and is 
named in honor of Albert Gallatin, are some old build¬ 
ings of three or four stories’ height, rented, in John 
Richling’s day, to a class of persons who got theii 
livelihood by sub-letting the rooms, and parts of rooms, 
to the wretchedest poor of New Orleans, — organ-grind¬ 
ers, chimney-sweeps, professional beggars, street musi¬ 
cians, lemon-peddlers, rag-pickers, with all the yet dirtier 
herd that live by hook and crook in the streets or under 
the wharves; a room with a bed and stove, a room 
without, a haln-room with or without ditto, a quarter- 
room with or without a blanket or quilt, and with only a 
chalk-mark on the floor instead of a partition. Into one 
of these went IVIr. Raphael Ristofalo, the two boys, and 
the apples. Whose assistance or indulgence, if any, he 
secured in there is not recorded; but when, late in 
the afternoon, the Italian issued thence—the boys, 
maanwhile, had been coming and going—an unusual 
luxury had been offered the roustabouts and idlers of the 
steamboat landings, and many had | 30 ught and eaten 
freely of the very small, round, shiny^ sugary, and arti¬ 
ficially crimson roasted apples, with neitly whittled white- 
pine stems to poise them on as they were lifted to the 


130 


DR. SEVIER. 


consumer's watering teeth. When, the next mornings 
Richling laughed at the story, the Italian drew out twc 
dollars and a half, and began to take from it a dollar. 

“ But you have last night’s lodging and so forth yet to 
pay for.” 

“ No. Made friends with Sicilian luggerman. Slept 
in his lugger.” He showed his brow and cheeks speckled 
with mosquito-bites. “ Ate little hard-tack and coffee 
with him this morning. Don’t want much.” He offered 
the dollar with a quarter added. Richling declined the 
bonus. 

“ But why not? ” 

“ Oh, I just couldn’t do it,” laughed Richling; “ that’s 

all.” 

“ Well,” said the Italian, “ lend me that dollar one day 
more, I return you dollar and half in its place to¬ 
morrow.” 

The lender had to laugh again. “ You can’t find an 
odd barrel of damaged apples every day.” 

“ No. No apples to-day. But there’s regiment soldiers 
at lower landing; whole steamboat load; going to sail 
this evenin’ to Florida. They’ll eat whole barrel hard- 
boil’ eggs.”—And they did. When they sailed, the 
Italian’s pocket was stuffed with small silver. 

Richling received his dollar and fifty cents. As ho 
did so, “I would give, if I had it, a hundred dollars for 
half your art,” he said, laughing unevenly. He was 
beaten, surpassed, humbled. Still he said, “ Come, don’t 
you want this again? You needn’t pay me for the use 
of it.” 

But the Italian refused. He had outgrown his patron. 
A week afterward Richling saw him at the Pica3rune Tier, 
superintending the unloading of a small schooner-load of 


HOW HE DID IT. 


131 


ban anas > He had bought the cargo, and was rese'Jing 
to small fruiterers. 

“ Make fifty dolla’ to-day,*^ said the Italian, marking 
his tally-board with a piece of chalk. 

Richling clapped him joyfully on the shoulder, but 
turned around with inward distress and hurried away. 
He had not found work. 

Events followed of which we have already taken knowl¬ 
edge. Mary, we have seen, fell sick and was taken to 
the hospital. 

“ T shall go mad 1 ” Richling would moan, with his 
dishevelled brows between his hands, and then start to 
his feet, exclaiming, “ I must not I I must not! I must 
keep my senses! ” And so to the commercial regions or 
to the hospital. 

Dr. Sevier, as we know, left word that Richling should 
call and see him; but when he called, a servant — very 
curtly, it seemed to him — said the Doctor was not well 
and didn’t want to see anybody. This was enough for a 
young man who hadn't his senses. The more he needed 
a helping hand the more unreasonably shy he became 
of those who might help him. 

“Will nobody come and find us?” Yet he would not 
pry “Whoop! ” and how, then, was anybody to come? 

Mary returned to the house again (ah! what joys 
there are in the vale of tribulation 1), and grew strong, — 
*itronger, she averred, than ever she had been. 

“And now you’ll not be cast down, will you?” she 
said, sliding into her husband’s lap. She was in an 
an commonly playful mood. 

“Not a bit of it,” said John. “Every dog has his 
day. I’ll come to the top. You’ll see.” 

“Don’t I know that?” she responded, “Look here, 
now,” she exclaimed, starting to her feet and facing him. 


132 


DR. SEVIER. 


ril recommend you to anybody. Fve got confidenct 
in you I ” Richling thought she had never looked quite 
80 pretty as at that moment. He leaped from his chair 
with a laughing ejaculation, caught and swung her an 
instant f /)m her feet, and landed her again before she 
could cry oit. If, in retort, she smote him so sturdily 
that she had to retreat backward to rearrange her shaken 
coil of hair, it need not go down on the record; such 
things will happen. The scuffle and suppressed laughter 
were detected even in Mrs. Riley’s room. 

“Ah I” sighed the widow to herself, “wasn’t it Kate 
Riley that used to get the sweet, haird knocks I ” Her 
grief was mellowing. 

Richling went out on the old search, which the ad¬ 
vancing summer made more nearly futile each day than 
the day before. 

Stop. What sound was that? 

“ Richling ! Richling I ” 

Richling, walking in a commercial street, turned. A 
member of the firm that had last employed him beckoned 
him to halt. 

“ What are you doing now, Richling? Still acting 
deputy assistant city surveyor pro tem. ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, see here I Why haven’t you been in the store 
to see us lately? Did I seem a little preoccupied the 
last time you called?” 

“ I” — Richling dropped his eyes with an embarrassed 
smile— I was afraid I was in the way — or should be.” 

“Well and suppose you were? A man that’s looking 
for work must put himself in the way. But come with 
me. I think I may be able to give you a lift.” 

“How’s that?” asked Richling, as they started off 
<ibroagt. 


HOW HE DID IT. 


133 


“ There’s a house around the corner here that will give 
you some work, — temporary anyhow, and may be per¬ 
manent.” 

So Richling was at work again, hidden away from Dr. 
Sevier between journal and ledger. His employers asked 
for references. Richling looked dismayed for a moment, 
then said, “ I’ll bring somebody to recommend me,” went 
away, and came back with Mary. 

“All the recommendation Fve got,” said he, with 
timid elation. There was a laugh all round. 

“ Well, madam, if you say he’s all right, we doa’i 
doubt li« Ib I ” 


134 


DB. SBVIEB. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


ANOTHEB PATIENT. 


OCTAH SEVEEAH,” said Narcisse, suddenly, as 



L J he finished sticking with great fervor the postage* 
stamps on some letters the Doctor had written, and 
having studied with much care the phraseology of what 
he had to say, and screwed up his courage to the pitch of 
utterance, “I saw yo* notiz on the noozpapeh this 
mornin*.” 

The unresponding Doctor closed his eyes in unutterable 
weariness of the innocent young gentleman’s prepared 
speeches. 

“ Yesseh. 'Tis a beaucheouz notiz. I fine that written 
with the gweatez accit’acy of diction, in fact. I made a 
twanslation of that faw my hant. Thaz a thing I am 
fon’ of, twanslation. I dunno *ow ’tis, Doctah,” he con¬ 
tinued, preparing to go out, — “I dunno ’ow ’tis, but I 
thing, you goin’ to fine that Mistoo Itchlin ad the en\ 
I dunno ’ow 'tis. Well, I’m goin’ ad the ” — 

The Doctor looked up fiercely. 

“Bank,” said Narcisse, getting near the door. 

“ All right! ” grumbled the Doctor, more politely. 

“ Yesseh —befo’ I go ad the poss-office.” 

A great many other persons had seen the advertisement. 
There were many among them who wondered if Mr. John 
Richling could be sucn a fool as to fall into that trap. 
There were others — some of them women, alas ! — who 
wondered how it was that nobody advertised for informs 


ANOTHER PATIENT. 


135 


tion oonceramg them, and who wished, jes, “wished to 
God,” that such a one, or such a one, who had had his 
money-bags locked up long enough, would die, and then 
you’d see who’d be advertised for. Some idlers looked in 
vain into the city directory to see if IVlr. John Richling 
were mentioned there. But Richling himself did not see 
the paper. His employers, or some fellow-clerk, might 
have pointed it out to him, but — we shall see in a moment. 

Time passed. It always does. At length, one morn¬ 
ing, as Dr. Sevier lay on his office lounge, fatigued after 
his attentions to callers, and much enervated by the 
prolonged summer heat, there entered a small female 
form, closely veiled. He rose to a sitting posture. 

“Good-morning, Doctor,” said a voice, hurriedly, 
behind the veil. “Doctor,” it continued, choking,—- 
“Doctor” — 

“ Why, Mrs. Richling I ” 

He sprang and gave her a chair. She sank into it. 

“Doctor,—O Doctor I John is in the Charity 
Hospital! ” 

She buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed 
aloud. The Doctor was silent a moment, and then 
asked: — 

“ What’s the matter with him?” 

“ ChiUs.” 

It seemed as though she must break down again, but 
the Doctor stopped her savagely. 

“Well, my dear madam, don’t cry! Come, now, you’re 
making too much of a small matter. Why, what are 
chills? We’ll break them in forty-eight hours. He’ll have 
the best of care. You needn’t cry I Certainly this isn’t 
as bad as when you were there.” 

She was still, but shook her head. She couldn’t agree 
to that. 


136 


DR. SEVIER. 


“Doctor, will you attend him?** 

“ Mine ie a female ward.** 

“ I know; but ** — 

“Oh — if you wish it■— certainly; of course I will 
But now, where have you moved, Mrs Richling? I sent** 
— He looked up over his desk towaid that of Narcisse. 

The Creole had been neither deaf nor idle. Hospital? 
Then those children in Prieur street had told him right. 
He softly changed his coat and shoes. As tne physician 
looked over the top of the desk Narcisse’s silent form, 
just here at the left, but out of the range of vision, 
passed through the door and went downstairs with the 
noiselessness of a moonbeam. 

Mary explained the location and arrangement of her 
residence. 

“Yes,** she said, “ that*s the way your clerk must 
have overlooked us. We live behind — down the alley- 
way.** 

“Well, at any rate, madam,** said the Doctor, “you 
are here now, and before you go I want to ** — He drew 
out his pocket-book. 

There was a quick gesture of remonstrance and a look 
of pleading. 

“No, no. Doctor; please don*tI please don*tI Give 
my poor husband one more chance ; don*t make me take 
that. I don’t refuse it for pride’s sake I ” 

“I don’t know about that,” he replied; “why do you 
doit?” 

“ For his sake. Doctor. I know just as well what he’d 
say — we’ve no right to take it anyhow. We don’t know 
when we could pay it back.” Her head sank. She wiped 
a tear from her hand. 

“ Why, I don’t care if you neyer pay it back I ” Th^ 
Doctor reddened angrily. 


another patient. 


137 


Mary raised her veil. 

“ Doctor,” — a smile played on her lips, — “ I want to 
say one thing.” She was a little care-wom ani grief- 
worn ; and yet, Narcisse, you should have seen her; you 
would not have slipped out. 

“ Say on, madam,” responded the Doctor. 

“If we have to ask anybody. Doctor, it will be you. 
John had another situation, but lost it by his chills. 
He’ll get another. I’m sure he will.” A long, broken 
sigh caught her unawares. Dr. Sevier thrust his pocket- 
book back into its place, compressing his lips and giving 
his head an unpersuaded jerk. And yet, was she not 
right, according to all his preaching? He asked himself 
that. “ Why didn’t your husband come to see me, as I 
requested him to do, Mrs. Richling?” 

She explained John’s being turned away from the door 
during the Doctor’s illness. “ But anyhow. Doctor, John 
has always been a little afraid of you.” 

The Doctor’s face did not respond to her smile. 

“ Why, you are not,” he said. 

“ No.” Her eyes sparkled, but their softer light 
quickly returned. She smiled and said : — 

“ I will ask a favor of you now, Doctor.” 

They had risen, and she stood leaning sidewise against 
his low desk and looking up into his face. 

“ Can you get me some sewing? John says I may take 
some.” 

The Doctor was about to order two dozen shirts instan- 
ter, but common sense checked him, and he only said: — 

“ I will. I will find you some. And I shall see your 
husband within an hour. Good-by.” She reached th« 
door. “ God bless you ! ” he added. 

“What, sir?” she asked, looking back. 

But the Doctor was reading. 


133 


I>&. SEV1£IU 


CHAPTER XX 


ALICE, 


LITTLE meiicine skilfully prescribed, the propel 



nourishment, two or three days’ confinement in bed, 
and the Doctor said, as he sat on the edge of Richling’s 
couch: — 

“No, you’d better stay where you are to-day; but to¬ 
morrow, if the weather is good, you may sit up.” 

Then Richling, with the unreasonableness of a conva¬ 
lescent, wanted to know why he couldn’t just as well go 
home. But the Doctor said again, no. 

“ Don’t be impatient; you’ll have to go anyhow before 
I would prefer to send you. It would be invaluable to 
you to pass your entire convalescence here, and go home 
only when you are completely recovered. But I can’t 
arrange it very well. The Charity Hospital is for sick 
people.” 

“And where is the place for convalescents?” 

“ There is none,” replied the physician. 

“ I shouldn’t want to go to it, myself,” said Richling, 
lolling pleasantly on his pillow; “all I should ask i« 
stiength to get home, and I’d be off.” 

The Doctor looked another way. 

“ Tne sick are not the wise,” he said, abstractedly. 
“ However, in your case, I should let you go to your wife 
as soon as you safely could.” At that he fell into so long 
a reverie that Richling studied every line of his face agaij 
and again. 


ALICE. 


139 


A very pleasant thought was in the convalescent’s mind 
the while. The last three days had made it plain to him 
that the Doctor was not only his friend, but was willing 
that Richling should be his. 

At length the physician spoke: — 

“ Mary is wonderfully like Alice, Richling.” 

“ Yes?” responded Richling, rather timidly. And the 
Doctor continued; — 

“ The same age, the same stature, the same features. 
Alice was a shade paler in her style of beauty, just a 
shade. Her hair was darker; but otherwise her whole 
effect was a trifle quieter, even, than Mary’s. She was 
beautiful,— outside and in. Like Mary, she had a certain 
richness of character—but of a different sort. I suppose 
I would not notice the difference if they were not so much 
alike. She didn’t stay with me long.” 

“Did you lose her — here?” asked Richling, hardly 
knowing how to break the silence that fell, and yet lead 
the speaker on. 

“ No. In Virginia.” The Doctor was quiet a moment, 
and then resumed: — 

“ I looked at your wife when she was last in my ofiSce, 
Richling; she had a little timid, beseeching light in her 
eyes that is not usual with her — and a moisture, too; 
and — it seemed to me as though Alice had come back. 
For my wife lived by my moods. Her spirits rose or fell 
just as my whim, conscious or unconscious, gave out 
light or took on shadow.” The Doctor was still again, 
and Richling only indicated his wish to hear more by 
shifting himself on his elbow. 

“ Do you remember, Richling, when the girl you had 
been bowing down to and worshipping, all at once, in a 
single wedding day, was transformed into your adorer?” 

“Yes, indeed,” responded the convalescent, with 


140 


DR. SEVIBB. 


beaming face. “ Wasn’t it wonderful? I couldn’t credit 
my senses. But how did you — was it the same ”— 

“It’s the same, Richling, with every man who has 
really secured a woman’s heail with her hand. It was 
very strange and sweet to me Alice would have been a 
spoiled child if her parents could have spoiled her; and 
when I was courting her she was the veriest little empress 
that ever walked over a man.” 

“lean hardly imagine,” said Ricking, with subdued 
amusement, looking at the long, slender form before him. 
The Doctor smiled very sweetly. 

“Yes.” Then, after another meditative pause: “But 
from the moment I became her husband she lived in con¬ 
tinual trepidation. She so magnified me in her timid 
fancy that she was always looking tremulously to me to 
see what should be her feeling. She even couldn’t help 
being afraid of me. I hate for any one to be afraid of 
me.” 

“Do you. Doctor?” said Richling, with surprise and 
evident introspection. 

“ Yes.” 

Richling felt his own fear changing to love. 

“ When I married,” continued Dr. Sevier, “ I bad 
thought Alice was one that would go with me hand in 
hand through life, dividing its cares and doubling its joys, 
as they say; I guiding her and she guiding me. But if 1 
had let her, she would have fallen into me as a planet 
might fall into the sun. I didn’t want to be the sun to 
her. I didn’t want her to shine only when I shone on her, 
and be dark when I was dark. No man ought to want 
such a thing. Yet she made life a delight to me; only 
she wanted that development which a better training, or 
even a harder training, might have given her; that sub- 
serving of the emotionst to the ” — he waved his hand — “1 


ALIOE. 


141 


can’t philosophize about her. We loved one .mother with 
our might, and she’s in heaven.” 

Richling felt an inward start. The Doctor interrupted 
his intended speech. 

“ Our short experience together, Richling, is the one 
great light place in my life ; and to me, to-day, sere as I 
am, the sweet — the sweetest sound — on God’s green 
earth” — the corners of his mouth quivered — “is the name 
of Alice. Take care of Mary, Richling ; she’s a priceless 
treasure. Don’t leave the making, and sustaining of the 
home sunshine all to her, any more than you’d like her to 
leave it all to you.” 

“I’ll not. Doctor; I’ll not.” Richling pressed the 
Doctor’s hand fervently; but the Doctor drew it away 
with a certain energy, and rose, saying: — 

“ Yes, you can sit up to-morrow.” 

The day that Richling went back to his malarious home 
in Prieur street Dr. Sevier happened to meet him just 
beyond the hospital gate. Richling waved his hand. He 
looked weak and tremulous. “Homeward bound,” he 
said, gayly. 

The physician reached forward in his carriage and bade 
his driver stop. “Well, be careful of yourself; I’m 
coming to see you in a day or two.” 


DR. SBYISB. 


Hi 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT, 



R. SEVIER was daily overtasked. His campaiga* 


against the evUs of our disordered flesh had even 
kept him from what his fellow-citizens thought was only 
his share of attention to public affairs. 

“ Why,” he cried to a committee that came soliciting 
his cooperation, “here’s one little unprofessional call that 
I’ve been trying every day for two weeks to make — and 
ought to have made — and must make ; and I haven’t got 
a step toward it yet. Oh, no, gentlemen!” He waved 
their request away. 

He was very tired. The afternoon was growing late. 
He dismissed his jaded horse toward home, walked down 
to Canal street, and took that yellow Bayou-Road omnibus 
whose big blue star painted on its corpulent side showed 
that quadroons, etc., were allowed a share of its accom¬ 
modation, and went rumbling and tumbling over the 
cobble-stones of the French quarter. 

By and by he got out, walked a little way southward in 
the hot, luminous shade of low-roofed tenement cottages 
that closed their window-shutters noiselessly, in sensitive- 
plant fashion, at his slow, meditative approach, and 
slightly and as noiselessly reopened them behind him, 
showing a pair of wary eyes within. Presently he recog¬ 
nized just ahead of him, standing out on the sidewalk, 
the little house that had been described to him by Mary. 

In a door-way that opened upon two low wooden 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


143 


sidewalk steps stood Mrs. Riley, clad in a cnsp black 
and white calico, a heavy, fat babe poised easily tn one 
arm. The Doctor turned directly toward the narrow alley, 
merely touching his hat to her as he pushed its small green 
door inward, and disappeared, while she lifted her chin 
at the silent liberty and dropped her eyelids. 

Dr. Sevier went down the cramped, ill-paved passage 
very slowly and softly. Regarding himself objectively, 
he would have said the deep shade of his thoughts was 
due partly, at least, to his fatigue. But that would hardly 
have accounted foi^a certain faint glow of indignation 
that came into them. In truth, he began distinctly to 
resent this state of affairs in the life of John and Mary 
Richling. An ill-defined anger beat about in his brain ir 
search of some tangible shortcoming of theirs upon which 
to thrust the blame of their helplessness. “ Crimina.. 
helplessness,*’ he called it, mutteringly. He tried to 
define the idea — or the idea tried to define itself — that 
they had somehow been recreant to their social caste, by 
getting down into the condition and, estate of what one 
may call the alien poor. Carondelet Jstreet had in some 
way specially vexed him to-day, and now here was this. 
It was bad enough, he thought, for men to slip into 
riches through dark back windows ; but here was a brace 
of youngsters who had glided into poverty, and taken a 
place to which they had no right to stoop. Treachery, — 
that was the name for it. And now he must be expected, 
— the Doctor quite forgot that nobody had asked him to 
do it, — he must be expected to come fishing them out of 
their hole, like a rag-picker at a trash barrel. 

— “ Bringing me into this wretched alley! ” he silently 
thought. His foot slipped on a mossy brick. Oh, no 
doubt they thought they were punishing some negligent 
friend or friends by letting themselves down into this sort 


144 


DR. SEVIER. 


of thing. Never mind I He recalled the tendei, con fid 
ing, friendly way in which he had talked to John, sitting 
on the edge of his hospital bed. He wished, now, he had 
every word back he had uttered. They might hide away 
to the full content of their poverty-pride. Poverty-pride : 
he had invented the- term; it was the opposite pole to 
purse-pride —and just as mean, — no, meaner. There I 
Must he yet slip down? He muttered an angry word. 
Well, well, this was making himself a little the cheapest 
he had ever let himself be made. And probably thi^ 
was what they wanted! Misery’s revenge. Umhum! 
They sit down in sour darkness, eh I and make relief 
seek them. It wouldn’t be the first time he had caught 
the poor taking savage comfort in the blush which their 
poverty was supposed to bring to the cheek of better-kept 
kinsfolk. True, he didn’t know this was the case with 
the Richlings. But wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? And have 
they a dog, that will presently hurl himself down this 
alley at one’s legs? He hopes so. He would so like 
to kick him\clean over the twelve-foot close plank fence 
that crowde(i\his right shoulder. Never mind! His anger 
became solemn. 

The alley opened into a small, narrow yard, paved with 
ashes from the gas-works. At the bottom of the yard a 
rough shed spanned its breadth, and a woman was there, 
busily bending over a row of wash-tubs. 

The Doctor knocked on a door near at hand, then 
^ vaited a moment, and, getting no response, turned away 
toward the shed and the deep, wet, burring sound of a 
wash-board. The woman bending over it did not hear 
his footfall Presently he stepped. She had just 
straightened up, lifting a piece jof the washing to the 
height of her head, and letting it down with a swash and 
slap upon the board. It was a woman’s garment, but 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


145 


certainly not hers. For she was small and slight. Hei 
hair was hidden under a towel. Her skirts were short¬ 
ened to a pair of dainty ankles by an extra under-fold at 
the neat, round waist. Her feet were thrust into a pair 
of sabots. She paused a moment in her work, and, 
lifting with both smoothly rounded arms, bared nearly to 
the shoulder, a large apron from her waist, wiped the 
perspiration from her forehead. It was Mary. 

The red blood came up into the Doctor’s pale, thin face. 
This was too outrageous. This was insult! He stirred as 
if to move forward. He would confront her. Yes, just 
as she was. He would speak. He would speak bluntly. 
He would chide sternly. He had the right. The only 
friend in the world from whom she had not escaped 
beyond reach, — he would speak the friendly, angry word 
that would stop this shocking — 

But, truly, deeply incensed as he was, and felt it his 
right to be, hurt, wrung, exasperated, he did not advance. 
She had reached down and taken from the wash-bench 
the lump of yellow soap that lay there, and was soaping 
the garment on the board before her, turning it this way 
and that. As she did this she began, all to herself and 
for her own ear, softly, with unconscious richness and 
tenderness of voice, to sing. And what was her song? 

“ Oh, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?” 

Down drooped the listener’s head. Remember? Ah, 
memory! — The old, heart-rending • memory I Sweet 
Alice! 

“ Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown? * 

Yes, yes; so brown I — so brown I 

“ She wept with delight when you gave her a 
And trembled with fear at your frown.” 


146 


DB. SEVIER. 


Ah! but the frown is gone I There is a look of suppli 
cation now. Sing no more I Oh, sing no more I Yes, 
surely, she will stop there ! 

No. The voice rises gently — just a little — into th« 
higher key, soft and clear as the note of a distant bird, 
and all unaware of a listener. Oh l in mercy’s name — 

“ In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 

In a corner obscure and alone, 

They have fitted a slab of granite so gray. 

And sweet Alice lies under the stone.” 

The little toiling figure bent once more across the wash¬ 
board and began to rub. He turned, the first dew of 
many a long year welling from each eye, and stole away, 
out of the little yard and down the dark, slippery alley, 
to the street. 

Mrs Riley still stood on the door-sill, holding the 
child. 

“ Good-evening, madam I ” 

“ Sur, to you.” She bowed with dignity. 

“ Is Mrs. Richling in? ” 

There was a shadow of triumph in her faint smile. 

“ She is.” 

“ I should like to see her.” 

Mrs. Riley hoisted her chin. “ I dunno if she’s a-seein 
comp’ny to-day.” The voice was amiably important. 
“ Wont ye walk in? Take a seat and sit down, sur, and 
I’ll go and infarm the laydie.” 

“ Thank you,” said the Doctor, but continued to stand 

Mrs. Riley started and stopped again. 

“ Ye forgot to give me yer kyaird, sur.” She drew 
her chin in again austerely. 

“ Just say Dr. Sevier.” 

“ Certainly, sur; yes, that’ll be suflQciend. And dis 
pinse with the kyaird.” She went majestically 


THE BUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


U7 


The Doctor, left alone, cast his uninterested glance 
around the smart little bare-floored parlor, upon its new, 
jig-sawed, gray hair-cloth furniture, and up upon a 
picture of the PDpe. When Mrs. Riley, in a moment, re¬ 
turned lie stood looking out the door. 

“Mis. Richling consints to see ye, sur. She’ll be in 
turreckly. Take a seat and sit down.” She readjusted 
the infant on her arm and lifted and swung a hair-cloth 
arm-chair toward him without visible exertion. “ There’s 
no use o’ having chayers if ye don’t sit on um,” she added 
affably. 

The Doctor sat down, and Mrs. Riley occupied the 
exact centre of the small, wide-eared, brittle-looking sofa, 
where she filled in the silent moments that followed by 
pulling down the skirts of the infant’s apparel, oppressed 
with the necessity of keeping up a conversation and with 
the want of subject-matter. The child stared at the 
Doctor, and suddenly plunged toward him with a loud and 
very watery coo. 

“Ah-hl” said Mrs. Riley, in ostentatious rebuke. 

Mike! ” she cried, laughingly, as the action was re¬ 
peated. “ Ye rowdy, air ye go-un to fight the gintleman?” 

She laughed sincerely, and the Doctor could but notice 
how neat and good-looking she was. He condescended 
to crook his finger at the babe. This seemed to exas¬ 
perate the so-called rowdy. He planted his pink feet on 
his mother’s thigh and gave a mighty lunge and whoop. 

“ He’s go-un to be a wicked bruiser,” said proud Mrs. 
Riley. “He”—the pronoun stood, this time, for her 
husband — “ he never sah the child. He was kilt with an 
explosion before the child was barn.” 

She held the infant on her strong arm as he struggled 
to throw himself, with wide-stretched jaws, upon her 
bosom: and might have been devoured by the wicked 


148 


DR. SEVIER. 


bruisei had not his attention been diverted by the entrance 
of Mary, who came in at last, all in fragrant white, with 
apologies for keeping the Doctor waiting. 

He looked down into her uplifted eyes. What a riddle 
is woman ! Had he not just seen this one in sabots ? Did 
she not certainly know, through Mrs. Riley, that he must 
have seen her so? Were not her skirts but just now 
hitched up with an under-tuck, and fastened with a string? 
Had she not just laid off, in hot haste, a suds-bespattered 
apron and the garments of toil beneath it? Had not a 
towel been but now unbound from the hair shining here 
under his glance in luxuriant brown coils ? This bright¬ 
ness of eye, that seemed all exhilaration, was it not trepi¬ 
dation instead? And this rosiness, so like redundant 
vigor, was it not the flush of her hot task ? He fancied he 
saw — in truth he may have seen — a defiance in the eyes 
as he glanced upon, and tardily dropped, the little water- 
soaked hand with a bow. 

Mary turned to present Mrs. Riley, who bowed and 
said, trying to hold herself with majesty while Mike drew 
her head into his mouth: “ Sur,” then turned with great 
ceremony to Mary, and adding, “I’ll withdrah,” withdrew 
with the head and step of a duchess. 

“ How is your husband, madam? ” 

“John? — IS not well at all. Doctor; though he would 
say he was if he were here. He doesn’t shake off his 
chills. He is out, though, looking for work. He’d go as 
ong as he could stand.” 

She smiled; she almost laughed; but half an eye could 
lee it was only to avoid the other thing. 

“ Where does he go? ” 

“ Everywhere 1 ” She laughed this time audibly. 

“ If he went everywhere I should see him,” said Dr. 
Sevier. 


THE SUN AT BODNIGHT. 

“Ah I naturally,” responded Mary, playfully. “Bui 
he does go wherever he thinks there’s work to be found. 
He doesn’t wander clear out among the plantations, of 
course, where everybody has slaves, and there’s no work 
but slaves’ work. And he says it’s useless to think of a 
■jlerkship this time of year. It must be, isn’t it?” 

The Doctor made no answer. 

There was a footstep in the alley. 

“ He’s coming now,” said Mary, — “ that’s he. He 
must have got work to-day. He has an acquaintance, an 
Italian, who promised to have something for him to do 
very soon. Doctor,”— she began to put together the 
split fractions of a palm-leaf fan, smiling diffidently at it 
the while,—“I can’t see how it is any discredit to a 
man not to have a knack for making money?” 

She lifted her peculiar look of radiant inquiry. 

“ It is not, madam.” 

Mary laughed for joy. The light of her face seemed to 
spread clear into her locks. 

“ Well, I knew you’d say so! John blames himself; 
he can make money, you know, Doctor, but he blames 
himself because he hasn’t that natural gift for it that Mr. 
Ristofalo has. Why, Mr. Ristofalo is simply wonderful! ” 
She smiled upon her fan in amused reminiscence. “ John 
is always wishing he had his gift.” 

“ My dear madam, don’t covet it I At least don’t ex¬ 
change it for anything else.” 

The Doctor was still in this mood of disapprobation 
when John entered. The radiancy of the young hus¬ 
band’s greeting hid for a moment, but only so long, the 
marks of illness and adversity. Mary followed him with 
her smiling eyes as the two men shook hands, and John 
drew a chair near to her and sat down with a sigh of 
mingled pleasure and fatigue. 


150 


DR. SEVIER. 


She told him of whom she and their vis.tor had Just 
been speaking. 

“Raphael Ristofalol** said John, kindling afresh. 
“ Yes ; I’ve been with him all day. It humiliates me to 
think of him.” 

Dr. Sevier responded quietly : — 

“ You’ve no right to let it humiliate you, sir.” 

Mary turned to John with dancing eyes, but he passed 
ths utterance as a mere compliment, and said, through his 
smiles: — 

“Just see how it is to-day. I have been overseeing 
the unloading of a little schooner from Ruatan island 
loaded with bananas, cocoanuts, and pine-apples. I’ve 
made two dollars ; he has made a hundred.” 

Richling went on eagerly to tell about the plain, lustre¬ 
less man whose one homely gift had fascinated him. The 
Doctor was entertained. The narrator sparkled and 
glowed as he told of Ristofalo’s appearance, and repro¬ 
duced his speeches and manner. 

“ Tell about the apples and eggs,” said the delighted 
Mary. 

He did so, sitting on the front edge of his chair-seat, 
and sprawling his legs now in front and now behind him 
as he swung now around to his wife and now to the 
Doctor. Mary laughed softly at every period, and 
watched the Doctor, to see his slight smile at each detail of 
the story. Richling enjoyed telling it; he had worked; 
his earnings were in his pocket; gladness was easy. 

“ Why, I’m learning more from Raphael Ristofalo 
than I ever learned from my school-masters : I’m learning 
the art of livelihood.” 

He ran on from Ristofalo to the men among whom h< 
had been mingling all day. He mimicked the strange, 
long swing of their Sicilian speech ; told of their swarthy 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


151 


faces and black beards, their rich instinct for color in 
costume; their fierce conversation and violent gestures; 
the energy of their movements when they worked, and 
the profoundness of their repose when they rested; the 
picturesqueness and grotesqueness of the negroes, too; 
the huge, flat, round baskets of fruit which the black men 
carried on their heads, and which the Sicilians bore on 
their shoulders or the nape of the neck. The captain ” 
of the schooner was a central figure. 

“ Doctor,” asked Richling, suddenly, “ do you know 
anything about the island of Cozumel ? ” 

“ Aha !” thought Mary. So there was something be¬ 
sides the day’s earning that elated him. 

She had suspected it. She looked at her husband with 
an expression of the most alert pleasure. The Doctor 
noticed it. 

“ No,” he said, in reply to Richling’s question. 

“ It stands out in the Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of 
fucatan,” began Richling. 

“ Yes, I know that.” 

“Well, Mary, I’ve almost promised the schooner 
captain that we’ll go there. He wants to get up a col¬ 
ony.” 

Mary started. 

“ Why, John I ” She betrayed a look of dismay, 
glanced at their visitor, tried to say “ Have you?” ap¬ 
provingly, and blushed. 

The Doctor made no kind of response. 

“ Now, don’t conclude,” said John to Mary, coloring 
too, but smiling. He turned to the physician. “ It’s a 
wonderful spot. Doctor.” 

But the Doctor was still silent, and Richling turned. 

“Just to think, Mary, of a place where you can raise 
all the products of two zones; where health is almost 


152 


S£ V JJEIB* 


perfect; where the yellow fever has never been; anu 
where there is such beauty as can be only in the tropics 
and a tropical sea. Why, Doctor, I can’t understand 
why Europeans or Americans haven’t settled it long ago.” 

“ I suppose we can find out before we go, can’t we? ” 
said Mary, looking timorously back and forth between 
John and the Doctor. 

“The reason is,” replied John, “it’s so little known. 
Just one island away out by itself. Three crops of fruit 
a year. One acre planted in bananas feeds fifty men. 
All the capital a man need have is an axe to cut down the 
finest cabinet and dye-woods in the world. The ther¬ 
mometer never goes above ninety nor below forty. You 
can hire all the labor you want at a few cents a day.” 

Mary’s diligent eye detected a cloud on the Doctor’s 
face. But John, though nettled, pushed on the more 
rapidly. 

“ A man can make — easily! — a thousand dollars the 
first year, and live on two hundred and fifty. It’s the 
pkee for a poor man.” 

He looked a little defiant. 

“Of course,” said Mary, “I know you wouldn’t come 
to an opinion ” — she smiled with the same restless glance 
— “until you had made all the inquiries necessary. It 
mu— must — be a delightful place. Doctor?” 

Her eyes shone blue as the sky. 

“ I wouldn’t send a convict to such a place,” said Di 
Sevier. 

Richling flamed up. 

“ Don’t you think,” he began to say with visible 
restraint and a faint, ugly twist of the head, — “don’t 
you think it’s a better place for a poor man than a great, 
heartless town ? ” 

“ This isn’t a heartless town,’ said the Doctor. 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


155 


“ He doesn't mean it as you do, Doctor,” interposed 
Mary, with alarm. “ John, you ought to explain.” 

“ Than a great town,” said Richling, “ where a man of 
honest intentions and real desire to live and be useful and 
independent; who wants to earn his daily bread at any 
honorable cost, and who can’t do it because the town 
doesn’t want his services, and will not have them — can 
go ” — He ceased, with his sentence aU tangled. 

“NoI” the Doctor was saying meanwhile. “No! 
Nol No!” 

“ Here I go, day after day,” persisted Richling, 
extending his arm and pointing indefinitely through the 
window. 

“ No, no, you don’t, John,” cried Mary, with an effort 
at gayety ; “ you don’t go by the window, John; you go 
by the door.” She pulled his arm down tenderly. 

“I go by the alley,” said John. Silence followed. 
The young pair contrived to force a little laugh, and John 
made an apologetic move. 

“Doctor,” he exclaimed, with an air of pleasantry, 
“the whole town’s asleep! — sound asleep, like a negro 
in the sunshine I There isn’t work for one man in fifty! ” 
He ended tremulously. Mary looked at him with dropped 
face but lifted eyes, handling the fan, whose rent she had 
made worse. 

“Richling, my friend,” — the Doctor had never used 
that term before, — “what does your Italian money¬ 
maker say to the idea?” 

Richling gave an Italian shrug and his own pained laugh. 

“Exactly! Why, Mr. Richling, you’re on an island 
— an island in mid-ocean. Both of you!” He 
waved his hands toward the two without lifting his head 
from the back of the easy-chair, where he had dropped it 

“ What do you mean, Doctor?” 


154 


DR. SEVIER. 


“Mean? Isn’t my meaning plain enough? I mean 
you’re too independent. You know very well, Richling, 
that you’ve started out in life with some fanciful feud 
against the ‘ world.’ What it is I don’t know, but I’m 
sure it’s not the sort that religion requires. You’ve toid 
this world — you remember you said it to me once — that 
it it will go one road you’ll go another. You’ve forgotten 
that, mean and stupid and bad as your fellow-creatures 
are, they’re your brothers and sisters, and that they have 
claims on you as such, and that you have claims on them 
as such. — Cozumel! You’re there now I Has a friend 
no rights? I don’t know your immediate relatives, and I 
say nothing about them ”— 

John gave a slight start, and Mary looked at him sud¬ 
denly. 

“ But here am I,” continued the speaker. “Is it just 
to me for you to hide away here in want that forces you 
and your wife — I beg your pardon, madam — into morti- 
f 3 'ing occupations, when one word to me — a trivial obliga¬ 
tion, not worthy to be called an obligation, contracted 
with me — would remove that necessity, and tide you over 
the emergency of the hour ? ” 

Richling was already answering, not by words only, 
but by his confident smile: — 

“ Yes, sir; yes, it is just: ask Mary.” 

“ Yes, Doctor,’ interposed the wife. “ We went 
over”— 

“We went over it together,” said John. “ We 
weighed it well. It is just, — not to ask aid as long as 
there’s hope without it.” 

The Doctor responded with the quiet air of one who is 
sure of his position : — 

“ Yes, I see. But, of course — I know without asking 
— you lef. the question of health out of your reckoning. 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


155 


Now. Bichling, put the whole world, if you choose, in a 
selfish attitude” — 

“No, no,” said Richling and his wife. “Ah, no I” 
But the Doctor persisted. 

“ — a purely selfish attitude. Wouldn’t it, neverthe¬ 
less, rather help a well man or woman than a sick one? 
Wouldn’t it pay better?” 

“Yes, but” — 

“ Yes,” said the Doctor. “ But you’re taking the most 
desperate risks against health and life.” He leaned 
forward in his chair, jerked in his legs, and threw out 
his long white hands. “ You’re committing slow sui¬ 
cide.” 

“ Doctor,” began Mary; but her husband had the 
floor. 

• “ Doctor,” he said, “ can you put yourself in our place? 
Wouldn’t you rather die than beg? WouldnH you?” 

The Doctor rose to his feet as straight as a lance. 

“It isn’t what you’d rather, sir! You haven’t your 
choice I You haven’t your choice at all, sir! When God 
gets ready for you to die he’ll let you know, sir I And 
you’ve no right to trifle with his mercy in the meanwhile. 
I’m not a man to teach men to whine after each other for 
aid ; but every principle has its limitations, Mr. Richling. 
You say you went over the whole subject. Yes; well, 
didn’t you strike the fact that suicide is an affront to civ¬ 
ilization and humanity? 

“Why, Doctor!” cried the other two, rising also 
“ We’re not going to commit suicide.” 

“ No,” retorted he, “ you’re not. That’s what I came 
here to tell you. I’m here to prevent it.” 

“ Doctor,” exclaimed Mary, the big tears standing in 
her eyes, and the Doctor melting before them like wax, 
“ it’s not so bad as it looks. I wash — some —because h 


156 


DS* SEV lEIS* 


pays so mach better than sewing. I find I'm strongei 
than any one would believe. Fm stronger than I ever 
was before in my life. I am, indeed. I dorCt wash much. 
And it’s only for the present. We’ll all be laughing at 
this, some time, together.” She began a small part of 
the laugh then and there. 

“ You’ll do it no more,” the Doctor replied. He drew 
out his pocket-book. “ Mr. Richling, will you please send 
me through the mail, or bring me, your note for fifty dol¬ 
lars, — at your leisure, you know, — payable on demand ? ” 
He rummaged an instant in the pocket-book, and ex¬ 
tended his hand with a folded bank-note between his 
thumb and finger. But Richling compressed his lips and 
shook his head, and the two men stood silently confront¬ 
ing each other. Mar}^ laid her hand upon her husband’s 
shoulder and leaned against him, with her eyes on the 
Doctor’s face. 

“Come, Richling,” — the Doctor smiled, — “your 
friend Ristofalo did not treat you in this way.” 

“ I never treated Ristofalo so,” replied Richling, with 
a smile tinged with bitterness. It was against himself 
that he felt bitter ; but the Doctor took it differently, and 
Richling, seeing this, hurried to correct the impression. 

“ I mean I lent him no such amount as that.” 

“ It was just one-fiftieth of that,” said Mary. 

“ But you gave liberally, without upbraiding,” said the 
Doctor. 

“ Oh, no. Doctor! no! ” exclaimed she, lifting the hand 
that lay on her husband’s near shoulder and reaching it 
over to the farther one. “Oh! a thousand times no! 
lohn never meant that. Did you, John? ” 

“ How could I?” said John. “ No!” Yet there was 
jonfessicn in his look. He had not meant it, but he had 
felt it. 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


157 


Dr. Sevier sat down, motioned them into their seats, 
drew the arm-chair close to theirs. Then he spoke. 
He spoke long, and as he had not spoken anywhere but 
at the bedside scarce ever in his life before. The young 
husband and wife forgot that he had ever said a grating 
word. A soft love-warmth began to fill them through 
and through. They seemed to listen to the gentle voice 
of an older and wiser brother. A hand of Mary sank 
unconsciously upon a hand of John. They smiled and 
assented, and smiled, and assented, and Mary’s eyes i 
brimmed up with tears, and John could hardly keep his ' 
down. The Doctor made the whole case so plain and 
his propositions so irresistibly logical that the pair looked 
from his eyes to each other’s and laughed. “ Cozumel! ” 
They did not utter the name ; they only thought of it 
both at one moment. It never passed their lips again. 
Their visitor brought them to an arrangement. The 
fifty dollars were to be placed to John’s credit on the 
books kept by Narcisse, as a deposit from Richling, 
and to be drawn against by him in such littles as ne¬ 
cessity might demand. \ It was to be “ secured ”—they 
all three smiled at that word — by Richling’s note paya¬ 
ble on demand. The Doctor left a prescription for the 
refractory chills. 

As he crossed Canal street, walking in slow meditation 
homeward at the hour of dusk, a tall man standing 
against a wall, tin cup ir hand, — a full-fledged mendi¬ 
cant of the steam-boiler explosion, tin-proclamation type, 
— asked his alms. He passed by, but faltered, stopped, 
let his hand down into his pocket, and looked around to 
see if his pernicious example was observed. None saw 
him. He felt — he saw himself—a drivelling sentiment¬ 
alist. But weak, and dazed, sore wounded of the arch¬ 
ers, he turned and dropped a dime into the beggar’s cup. 


158 


DjB* SE V X£B« 


Richling was too restless with the Joy of relief to sit 
or stand. He trumped up an errand around the corneri 
and hardly got back before he contrived another. He 
went out to the bakery for some crackers — fresh baked 
— for Mary; listened to a long story across the baker’s 
counter, and when he got back to his door found he had 
left the crackers at the bakery. He went back for them 
and returned, the blood about his heart still running and 
leaping and praising God. 

“ The sun at midnight! ” he exclaimed, knitting Mary’s 
hands in his. “ You’re very tired. Go to bed. Me? I 
can’t yet. I’m too restless.” 

He spent more than an hour chatting with Mrs. Riley, 
and had never found her so “nice” a person before; so 
easy comes human fellowship when we have had a stroke 
of fortune. When he went again to his room there was 
Mary kneeling by the bedside, with her head slipped under 
the snowy mosquito net, all in fine linen, white as the 
moonlight, frilled and broidered, a remnant of her wedding 
glory gleaming through the long, heavy wefts of her 
unbound hair. 

“ Why, Mary”— 

There was no answer. 

“Mary?” he said again, laying his hand upon her 
head. 

The head was slowly lifted. She smiled an infant’s 
smile, and dropped her cheek again upon the bedside. 
She had fallen asleep at the foot of the Throne. 

At that same hour, in an upper chamber of a large, 
distant house, there knelt another form, with bared, 
bowed head, but in the garb in which it had come in from 
the street. Praying? This white thing overtaken by 
sleep here was not more silent. Yet — yes, praying. But, 
all the while, the prayer kefit running to a little tune, and 


THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 


15S 


th3 words repeating themselves again and againi “Oh, 
don’t you remember sweet Alice—with hair so brown — 
so brown — so brown? Sweet Alice, with hair ao 

brown?” And bent his ear and listened. 


ISO 


DR. SEVIER. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

BOBBOWEB TURNED LENDER. 

r ’ was onlj a day or two later that the Richlings, on« 
afternoon, having been out for a sunset walk, were 
just reaching Mrs. Riley's door-step again, when they 
were aware of a young man approaching from the oppo¬ 
site direction with the intention of accosting them. They 
brought their conversation to a murmurous close. 

For it was not what a mere acquaintance could have 
joined them in, albeit its subject was the old one of meat 
and raiment. Their talk had been light enough on their 
starting out, notwithstanding John had earned nothing 
that day. But it had toned down, or, we might say up, 
to a sober, though not a sombre, quality. John had in 
some way evolved the assertion that even the life of the 
body alone is much more than food and clothing and 
shelter; so much more, that only a divine provision can 
sustain it; so much more, that the fact is, when it fails, 
it generally fails with meat and raiment within easy 
reach. 

Mary devoured his words. His spiritual vision had 
oeen a little clouded of late, and now, to see it clear — 
She closed her eyes for bliss. 

“Why, John," she said, “you make it plainer than 
any preacher I ever heard." 

This, very naturally, silenced John. And Mary, hoping 
to start him again, said : — 

“Heaven provides. And yet Fm sure you’re rifflrt lo 


BORROWER TURNED LENDER. 


161 


seeking our food and raiment?” She looked up inquir¬ 
ingly. 

“Yes; like the fowls, the provision is made for us 
through us. The mistake is in making those things the 
end of our search.” 

“Why, certainly!” exclaimed Mary, softly. She 
took fresh hold in her husband’s arm; the young man was 
drawing near. 

“ It’s Narcisse ! ” murmured John. The Creole pressed 
suddenly forward with a joyous smile, seized Richling’s 
hand, and, lifting his hat to Mary as John presented him, 
brought his heels together and bowed from the hips. 

“ I wuz juz coming at yo’ ’ouse, Mistoo Itchlin. 
Yesseh. I wuz juz sitting in my ’oom afteh dinneh, 
envelop’ in my ’o6e de chamhre^ when all at once I says 
to myseff, ‘ Faw distwaction I will go and see Mistoo 
Itchlin! ’ ” 

“ Will you walk in?” said the pair. 

Mrs. Riley, standing in the door of her parlor, made 
way by descending to the sidewalk. Her calico was white, 
with a smaU purple figure, and was highly starched and 
beautifully ironed. Purple ribbons were at her waist and 
throat. As she reached the ground Mary introduced 
Narcisse. She smiled winningly, and when she said, with 
a courtesy: “ Proud to know ye, sur,” Narcisse was struck 
with the sweetness of her tone. But she swept away with 
a dramatic tread. 

“Will you walk in?” Mary repeated; and Narcisse 
responded: — 

“ If you will pummit me yo’ attention a few moment’.” 
He bowed again and made way for Mary to precede him. 

“Mistoo Itchlin,” he continued, going in, “in fact 
you don’t give Misses Witchlin my last name with absolute 
co’ectness ” 


162 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ Dil I not? Why, I hope you’ll pardon ”— 

“Oh, I’m glad of it. I don’ feel lak a pusson is 
fwen’ whilst they don’t call me Nahcisse.” He directed 
his remark particularly to Mary. 

“ Indeed?” responded she. “But, at the same time, 
Mr. Richling would have”— She had turned to John, 
who sat waiting to catch her eye with such intense amuse¬ 
ment betrayed in his own that she saved herself from 
laughter and disgrace only by instant silence. 

“ Yesseh,” said Narcisse to Richling, “ ’tis the tooth.” 

He cast his eye around upon the prevailing hair-cloth 
and varnish. 

' “ Misses Witchlin, I muz tell you I like yo’ tas’e in that 
pawlah.” 

“ It’s Mrs. Riley’s taste,” said Mary. 

“ ’Tis a beaucheouz tas’e,” insisted the Creole, con¬ 
templatively, gazing at the Pope’s vestments tricked out 
with blue, scarlet, and gilt spangles. “ Well, IMistoo 
Itchlin, since some time I’ve been stipulating me to do 
myseff that honoh, seh, to come at yo’ ’ouse ; well, ad the 
end I am yeh. I think you fine yoseff not ve’y well those 
days. Is that nod the case, Mistoo Itchlin ? ” ' 

“ Oh, I’m well enough! ” Richling ended with a 
laugh, somewhat explosively. Mary looked at him with 
forced gravity as he suppressed it. He had to draw his 
nose slowly through his thumb and two fingers bef re he 
could quite command himself. Mary relieved him by re 
spending: — 

“ No, Mr. Richling hasn’t been well for some time.” 

Narcisse responded triumphantly : — 

“It stwuck me — so soon I pe’ceive you — that you 
’ave the ai’ of a valedictudina’y. Thass a ve’y fawtunate 
that you ah ’esiding in a ’ealthsome pawt of the city, b 
fact.” 


BORROWER TURNED LENDER. 


163 


Both John and Mary laughed and demurred. 

“ You don’t think ? ” asked the smiling visitor. “Me, 

I dunno, — I fine one thing. If a man don’t die fum one 
thing, yet, still, he’ll die fum something. I ’ave study 
that out, Mistoo Itchlin. ‘ To be, aw to not be, thaz 
the queztion,’ in fact. I don’t ca’e if you live one place 
if you live anotheh place, ’tis all the same,—you’ve 
got to pay to live I ” 

The Richlings laughed again, and would have been 
glad to laugh more; but each, without knowing it of the 
other, was reflecting with some mortification upon the 
fact that, had they been talking French, Narcisse would 
have bitten his tongue off before any of his laughter 
should have been at their expense. 

“ Indeed you have got to pay to live,” said John, step¬ 
ping to the window and drawing up its painted paper 
shade. “Yes, and” — 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Mary, with gentle disapprobation. 
She met her husband’s eye with a smile of protest. 

“ John,” she said, “ Mr.-” she couldn’t think of the 

name. 

“ Nahcisse,” said the Creole. 

“ Will think,” she continued, her amusement climbing 
into her eyes in spite of her, “ you’re in earnest.” 

“ Well, I am, partly. Narcisse knows, as well as we do 
that there are two sides to the question.” He resumed 
bis seat. “ I reckon ” — 

“Yes,” said Narcisse, “and what you muz look out 
faw, ’tis to git on the soff side.” 

They all laughed. 

“ I was going to say,” said Richling, “ the world takes 
as as we come, ‘ sight-unseen.’ Some of us pay ex¬ 
penses, some don’t.” 

“ Ah I ’ rejoined Narcisse, looking up at the white 



164 


DR. SEVIER. 


washed ceiling, “ those egspenze’! ” He raised his hand 
and dropped it. “I fine it so diffycuV to defeat those 
egspenze’ I In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, such ah the state 
jf my financial emba’assment that I do not go out at aU. 
I stay in, in fact. I stay at my ’ouse — to light’ those 
egspenze’! ” 

They were all agreed that expenses could be lightened 
thus. 

“ And by making believe you don’t want things,” said 
Mary. 

“ Ah! ” exclaimed Narcisse, “ I nevvah kin do that I ” 
and Richling gave a laugh that was not without sympathy. 
“But I muz tell you, Mistoo Itchlin, I am aztonizh at 
you.'' 

An instant apprehension seized John and Mary. They 
knew their ill-concealed amusement would betray them, 
and now they were to be called to account. But 
no. 

“ Yesseh,” continued Narcisse, “ you ’ave the gweatez 
o’casion to be the subjec’ of congwatulation, Mistoo 
Itchlin, to ’ave the poweh to accum’late money in those 
hawd time’ like the pwesen’! ” 

The Richlings cried out with relief and amused sur¬ 
prise. 

“ Why, you couldn’t make a greater mistake ! ” 

“Mistaken! Hah! W’en I ged that memo’andum 
f’om Dr. Seveeah to paz that fifty dollah at yo' cwedit, it 
burz fom me, that egscZamation ! ‘ Acchilly ! ’ow that 

Mistoo Itchlin deserve the ’espect to save a lill quantity 
of money like that! ’ ” 

The laughter of John and Mary did not impede his 
rhapsody, nor their protestations shake his convictions. 

“ Why,” said Richling, lolling back, “ the Doctor haa 
simply omitted to have you make the entry of ” — 


BORROWER TURNED LENDER. 


165 


But he had no right to interfere with the Doctor's 
accounts. However, Narcisse was not listening. 

“ You' compel' to be witch some day, Mistoo Itchlin, 
»d that wate of p'ogwess ; I am convince of that. I can 
deteg that indispwtably in yo' physio'nomie. Me — 1 
can'i save a cent! Mistoo Itchlin, you would be azton 
izh to know 'ow bad I want some money, in fact; exceb 
that I am too pwoud to dizclose you that state of my con¬ 
dition ! ” 

He paused and looked from John to Mary, and from 
Mary to John again. 

“Why, I'll declare," said Richling, sincerely, dropping 
forward with his chin on his hand, “ I'm sorry to hear” — 

But Narcisse interrupted. 

“ Diffyculty with me — I am not willing to baw'.” 

Mary drew a long breath and glanced at her husband. 
He changed his attitude and, looking upon the floor, said, 
“ Yes, yes.” He slowly marked the bare floor with the 
edge of his shoe-sole. “ And yet there are times when 
duty actually ” — 

“ I believe you, Mistoo Itchlin,'* said Narcisse, 
quickly forestalling Mary's attempt to speak. “Ah, 
Mistoo Itchlin I if I had baw’d money ligue the huncle 
of my hant! ” He waved his hand to the ceiling and 
looked up through that obstruction, as it were, to the 
witnessing sky. “But I hade that — to baw'! I tell 
you 'ow 'tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin; I nevvah would 
consen' to baw' money on'y if I pay a big inte'es' on it. 
An' I'm compel' to tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, in 
fact: I nevvah would leave money with Doctah Seveeah 
to invez faw me — no!'' 

Richling gave a little start, and cast his eyes an instant 
toward his wife. She spoke. 

“ We'd rather you wouldn't say that to us, Mistei 


166 


DR. SEVIER. 


-There was a commanding smile at one corner oi 

her lips. “ You don’t know what a friend ” — 

Narcisse had already apologized by two or three gest* 
ores to each of his hearers. 

“Misses Itchlin—Mistoo Itchlin,” — he shook hii 
head and smiled skeptically, — “ you think you kin ad- 
miah Doctah Seveeah mo’ than me? ’Tis uzeless to at¬ 
tempt. ‘ With all ’is fault I love ’im still.’ ” 

Richling and his wife both spoke at once. 

“ But John and I,” exclaimed Mary, electrically, “ love 
him, faults and all! ” 

She looked from husband to visitor, and from visitor to 
husband, and laughed and laughed, pushing her small 
feet back and forth alternately and softly clapping her 
hands. Narcisse felt her in the centre of his heart. He 
laughed. John laughed. 

“ What I mean, Mistoo Itchlin,” resumed Narcisse, pre¬ 
ferring to avoid Mary’s aroused eye, — “ what I mean — 
Doctah Seveeah don’t un’stan’ that kine of business 
co’ectly. Still, ad the same time, if I was you I know 
I would ’ate faw my money not to be makin’ me some in- 
te’es’. I tell you what I would do with you, Mistoo 
Itchlin, in fact: I kin baw’ that fifty dollah f’om you 
myseff.” 

Richling repressed a smile. “Thank you! But I 
don’t care to invest it.” 

“Pay you ten pe’ cent, a month.” 

“ But we can’t spare it,” said Richling, smiling toward 
Mary. “We may need part of it ourselves.” 

“I tell you, ’eally, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevveh baw* 
money; but it juz ’appen I kin use that juz at th« 
pwesent.” 

“ Why, John,” said Mary, “ I think you might as well 
•ay plainly that the money is borrowed money.” 


BORROWER TURNED LENDER 


167 


“ That’s what it is,” responded Richling, and rose to 
spread the street-door wider open, for the daylight was 
fading. 

“Well, I ’ope you’ll egscuse that libbetty,” said Nar- 
cissB, rising a little more tardily, and slower. “ I muz 
baw’ fawty doUah— some place. Give you good secu’ty 
— give you my note, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact; muz baw 
fawty — aw thutty-five.” 

“ Why, I’m very sorry,” responded Richling, really 
ashamed that he could not hold his face straight. “I 
hope you understand ” — 

“ Mistoo Itchlin, ’tis haw’d money. If you had a ne¬ 
cessity faw it you would use it. If a fwend ’ave a neces¬ 
sity — ’tis anotheh thing — you don’t feel that libbetty — 
you ah ’ight — I honoh you ” — 

“ I don't feel the same liberty.” 

“ Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, with noble gen¬ 
erosity, throwing himself a half step forward, “ if it was 
yoze you’d baw’ it to me in a minnit I ” He smiled with 
benign delight. “ W«ll, madame, — I bid 3 " 0 u good even¬ 
ing, Misses Itchlin. The bes’ of fwen’s muz pawt, you 
know.” He turned again to Richling with a face all 
beauty and a form all grace. “ I was juz sitting — 
mistfully — all at once I says to myseff, ‘Faw distwac- 
tion I’ll go an’ see Mistoo Itchlin.’ I don’t know ’ow I 
juz ’appen’! —Well, au'evoi', Mistoo Itchlin.” 

Richling followed him out upon the door-step. There 
Narcisse intimated that even twenty dollars for a few 
days would snpply a stern want. And when Richling 
was compelled again to refuse, Narcisse solicited his com¬ 
pany as far as the next corner. There the Creole covered 
Vim with shame by forcing him to refuse the loan of ten 
dollars, and then of five. 

It was a fuU hour before Richling rejoined his wife 


168 


DR. SEVIER. 


Mrs. Riley had stepped off to some neighbor’s door iritk 
Mike on her arm. Mary was on the sidewalk. 

“John,” she said, in a low voice, and with & long 
anxious look. 

“What?” 

“He didn*t take the only dollar of your own in the 
world ? ” 

“ Mary, what could I do? It seemed a crime to give, 
and a crime not to give. He cried like a child; said it 
was all a sham about his dinner and his robe de chambre.** 
An aunt, two little cousins, an aged uncle at home — and 
not a cent in the house! What could I do ? He says 
he’ll return it in three days.” 

“ And ” — Mary laughed distressfully — “ you believed 
him ? ” She looked at him with an air of tender, painful 
admiration, half way between a laugh and a cry. 

“ Come, sit down,” he said, sinking upon the little 
woooden buttress at one side of the door-step. 

Tears sprang into her eyes. She shook her head. 

“Let’s go inside.” And in there she told him sin¬ 
cerely, “ No, no, no; she didn’t think he had done wrong 
— when he knew he had. 


WEAR AND TEAR. 


169 


CHAPTER xxra. 

WEAR AND TEAR. 

T he arrangement for Dr. Sevier to place the loan of 
fifty dollars on his own books at Richling’s credit 
naturally brought Narcisse into relation with it. 

It was a case of love at first sight. From the moment 
the record of Richling’s “ little quantity ” slid from the pen 
to the page, Narcisse had felt himself betrothed to it by 
destiny, and hourly supplicated the awful fates to frown 
not upon the amorous hopes of him unaugmented. 
Richling descended upon him once or twice and tore away 
from his embrace small fractions of the coveted treasure, 
choosing, through a diflSdence which he mistook for a 
sort of virtue, the time of day when he would not see Dr. 
Sevier; and at the third visitation took the entire golden 
fleece away rfith him rather than encounter again the 
always more or less successful courtship of the scorner 
of loans. 

A faithful suitor, however, was not thus easily shaken 
oil. Narcisse became a frequent visitor at the Richlings’, 
where he never mentioned money; that part was left to 
moments of accidental meeting with Richling in the street, 
which suddenly began to occur at singularly short inter¬ 
vals. 

Mary labored honestly and arduously to dislike him — 
to hold a repellent attitude toward him. But he was too 
much for her. It was easy enough when he was absent; 
but one look at his handsome face, so rife with animal 


170 


DH* SB VJLBS* 


innocence, and despite herself she was ready to reward 
his displays of sentiment and erudition with laughter 
that, mean what it might, always pleased and flattered 
him. 

“ Can you help liking him?” she would ask John. “ I 
can*t, to save my life! ” 

Had the treasure been earnings, Richling said — and 
believed — he could firmly have repelled Narcisse’s im¬ 
portunities. But coldly]to withhold an occasional modest 
heave-oflfering of that which was the free bounty 
of another to him was more than he could do. 

“ But,” said Mary, straightening his cravat, “ you intend 
to pay up, and he — you don’t think I’m uncharitable, do 
you?” 

“I’d rather give my last cent than think you so,” 
replied John. “Still,” — laying the matter before her 
with both open hands, — “if you say plainly not to give 
him another cent I’ll do as you say. The money’s no 
more mine than yours.” 

“ Well, you can have all my share,” said Mary, pleas¬ 
antly. 

So the weeks passed and the hoard dwindled. 

“What has it got down to, now?” asked John, frown- 
ingly, on more than one morning as he was preparing to 
go out. And Mary, who had been made treasurer, could 
count it at a glance without taking it out of her purse. 

One evening, when Narcisse called, he found no one at 
home but Mrs. Riley. The infant Mike had been stuflTed 
with rice and milk and laid away to slumber. The Rich- 
lings would hardly be back in less than an houi. 

“ I’m so’y,” said Narcisse, with a baffled frown, as he 
sat down and Mrs. Riley took her seat opposite. “ I 
came to ^epay ’em some moneys which he made me the 
loan —juz in a fwenly way. And I came to 'epay ’ina 


WEAK AND TEAK. 


171 


The sum-total, in fact — I suppose he newa mentioned 
you about that, eh? ” 

“ No, sir; but, still, if” — 

“ No, and so I can’t pay it to you. I’m so’y. Be¬ 
cause I know he woon like it, I know, if he fine that you 
know he’s been bawing money to me. Well, Misses 
Wiley, in fact, thass a ve*y fine gen’lemau and lady — 
that Mistoo and Misses Itchlin, in fact ? ” 

“Well, now, Mr. Narcisse, ye’r about right? She’s 
just too good to live — and he’s not much better — ha! 
ha!” She checked her jesting mood. “Yes, sur, 
they’re very peaceable, quiet people. They’re just 
simply ferst tlass.” 

“ ’Tis t’ue,” rejoined the Creole, fanning himself with 
his straw hat and looking at the Pope. “ And they 
handsome and genial, as the lite’ati say on the noozpapeh. 
Seem like they almoze wedded to each otheh.” 

“Well, now, sir, that’s the ttrooth!” She threw her 
open hand down with emphasis. 

“ And isn’t that as man and wife should be?” 

“ Yo’ mighty co’ect. Misses Wiley I ” Narcisse gave 
his pretty head a little shake from side to side as he spoke. 

“Ah! Mr. Narcisse,” — she pointed at herself,— 
“ haven’t I been a wife? The husband and wife — they’d 
aht to jist be each other’s guairdjian angels I Hairt to hairt 
but; sperit to sperit. All the rist is nawthing. Mister 
Narcisse.” She waved her hands. “ Min is different 
from women, sur.” She looked about on the ceiling. Her 
foot noiselessly patted the floor. 

“ Yes,” said Narcisse, “ and thass the cause that they 
dwess them dif’ent. To show the dif’ence, you know.” 

“Ah! no. It’s not the mortial frame, sur; it’s the 
gperit. The sperit of man is not the sperit of woman. 
The sperit of woman is not the sperit of man. Each one 


172 


DK. SEVIEK. 


needs the other, sur. They needs each other, sur, to 
purify and strinthen and enlairge each other^s speritu*! 
life. Ah, sur I Doo not I feel those things, sur?’^ She 
touched her heart with one backward-pointed finger, 
“/doo. It isn’t good for min to be alone —much liss 
for women. Do not misunderstand me, sur; I speak as a 
widder, sur — and who always will be — ah! yes, I will 
— ha ! ha I hi I ” She hushed her laugh as if this were 
going too far, tossed her head, and continued smiling. 

So they talked on. Narcisse did not stay an hour, but 
there was little of the hour left when he rose to go. They 
had passed a pleasant time. The Creole, it is true, tried 
and failed to take the helm of conversation. Mrs. Riley 
held it. But she steered well. She was still expatiating 
on the “ strinthenin’ ” spiritual value of the marriage 
relation when she, too, stood up. 

“ And that’s what Mr. and Madam Richlin’s a-doin’ all 
the time. And they do ut to perfiction, sur — jist to 
perfiction I ” 

“I doubt it not. Misses Wiley. Well, Misses Wiley, 
I bid you au *evoi\ Idunno if you’ll pummit me, but I 
am compel to tell you. Misses Wiley, I newa yeh anybody 
in my life with such a educated and talented conve’sation 
like yo’seff. Misses Wiley, at what univussity did you 
gwaduate ? ” 

“ Well, reely, Mister — eh” — she fanned herself with 
broad sweeps of her purple bordered palmdeaf — “ reely. 
BUT, if I don’t furgit the name I — I — I’ll be switched! 
Ha I ha ! ha I ” 

Narcisse joined in the laugh. 

“Thaz the way, sometime,” he said, and then with 
sudden gravity; ‘‘ And, by-the-by. Misses Wiley, speakin' 
of Mistoo Itchlin,— if you could baw’ me two dollahs 
an’ a ’alf juz till tomaw mawnin — till I kin sen’ it you 


WEAK AND TEAK. 


173 


fum the office — Because that money IVe got faw IVIis- 
too Itchlin is in the shape of a check, and anyhow Fm 
c’owding me a little to pay that whole sum-total to Mistoo 
Itchlin. I kin sen' it you firs' thing my bank open 
tomaw mawnin." 

Do you think he didn't get it ? 

“ What has it got down to now?" John asked again, 
a few mornings after Narcisse's last visit. Mary told him.' 
He stepped a little way aside, averting his face, dropped 
his forehead into his hand, and returned. 

“I don't see — I don't see, Mary—I" — 

“ Darling," she replied, reaching and capturing both 
his hands, “ who does see? The rich think they see; but 
do they, John? Now, do they?" 

The frown did not go quite oflf his face, but he took her 
head between his hands and kissed her temple. 

“ You're always trying to lift me," he said. 

“ Don't you lift me?" she replied, looking up between 
his hands and smiling. 

“Do I?" 

“ You know you do. Don't you remember the day we 
took that walk, and you said that after all it never is we 
who provide?" She looked at the button of his coat, 
which she twirled in her fingers. “ That word lifted me." 

“ But suppose I can’t practice the trust I preach? ” he 

said. I 

“ You do trust, though. You have trusted.” 

“ Past tense,” said John. He lifted her hands slowly 
away from him, and moved toward the door of their 
chamber. He could not help looking back at the eyes 
that followed him, and then he could not bear their look. 
“I — I suppose a man mustn’t trust too much," he sa'd 

“ Can he? " asked Mary, leaning against a table. 


174 


DR. 8EVIEE. 


“Oh, yes, he can,” replied John; but his ton© lacked 
oonviction. 

“ If it’s the right kind? ” 

Her eyes were full of tears. 

“ I’m afraid mine’s not the right kind, then,” said 
John, and passed out into and down the street. 

But what a mind he took with him — what tortur e of 
questions I Was he being lifted or pulled down ? His 
tastes, — ware they rising or sinking? Were little negli¬ 
gences of dress and bearing and in-door attitude creeping 
into his habits? Was he losing his discriminative sense 
of quantity, time, distance? Did he talk of small achieve¬ 
ments, small gains, and small truths, as though they were 
great? Had he learned to carp at the rich, and to make 
honesty the excuse for all penury? Had he these vari¬ 
ous poverty-marks? He looked at himself outside and 
inside, and feared to answer. One thing he knew,— that 
he was having great wrestlings. 

He turned his thoughts to Ristofalo. This was a 
common habit with him. Not only in thought, but in 
person, he hovered with a positive infatuation about this 
man of perpetual success. 

Lately the Italian had gone out of town, into the coun¬ 
try of La Fourche, to buy standing crops of oranges. 
Richling fed his hope on the possibilities that might 
follow Ristofalo’s return. His friend would want him to 
superintend the gathering and shipment of those crops — 
when they should be ripe — away yonder in November. 
Frantic thought! A man and his wife could starve to 
death twenty times before then. 

Mrs. Riley’s high esteem for John and IVIary had risen 
from the date of the Doctor’s visit, and the good woman 
thought it but right somewhat to increase the figures 
of their room-rent to others more in keeping with 


WEAR AND TEAR, 


175 


such high gentility. How fast the little hoard melted 
away I 

And the summer continued on, — the long, beautiful, 
glaring, implacable summer; its heat quaking on the low 
roofs ; its fig-trees dropping their shrivelled and blackened 
leaves and writhing their weird, bare branches under the 
scorching sun; the long-drawn, frying note of its cicada 
throbbing through the mid-day heat from the depths of 
the becalmed oak; its universal pall of dust on the myriad 
red, sleep-heavy blossoms of the oleander and the white 
tulips of the lofty magnolia; its twinkling pomegranates 
hanging their apples of scarlet an(t\^old over the garden 
wall; its little chameleons darting along the hot fence- 
tops ; its far-stretching, empty streets; its wide hush of 
idleness; its solitary vultures sailing in the upper blue; 
its grateful clouds; its hot north winds, its cool south 
winds ; its gasping twilight calms ; its gorgeous nights, — 
the long, long summer lingered on into September. 

One evening, as the sun was sinking below the broad, 
flat land, its burning disk reddened by a low golden haze 
of suspended dust, Richling passed slowly toward his 
home, coming from a lower part of the town by way of 
the quadroon quarter. He was paying little notice, or 
none, to his whereabouts, wending his way mechanically, 
in the dejected reverie of weary disappointment, and with 
voiceless inward screamings and groanings under the 
weight of those thoughts which had lately taken up their 
stay in his dismayed mind. But all at once his attention 
was challenged by a strange, offensive odor. He looked 
up and around, saw nothing, turned a corner, and found 
himself at the intersection of Tr6m6 and St. Anne streets, 
just behind iue great central prison of New Orleans. 

The ‘parish Prison” was then only about twenty-fivo 
years old\ but it had made haste to become offensive to 


176 


DR. SEVIER. 


every sense and sentiment of reasonable man. It had 
been built in the Spanish style, — a massive, daik, grim, 
huge, four-sided block, the fissure-like windows of its 
cells looking down into the four public streets which ran 
immediately under its walls. Dilapidation had followed 
hard behind ill-building contractors. Down its frowning 
masonry ran grimy streaks of leakage over peeling stucco 
and mould-covered brick. Weeds bloomed high aloft in 
the broken gutters under the scant and ragged eaves 
Here and there the pale, debauched face of a prisonei 
peered shamelessly down through shattered glass or 
rusted grating; and everywhere in the still atmosphere 
floated the stifling smell of the unseen loathsomeness 
within. 

Richling paused. As he looked up he noticed a bat 
dart out from a long crevice under the eaves. Two 
others followed. Then three — a dozen — a hundred — 
a thousand — millions. All along the two sides of the 
prison in view they poured forth in a horrid black torrent, 
— myriads upon myriads. They filled the air. They 
came and came. Richling stood and gazed; and still 
they streamed out in gibbering waves, until the wonder 
was that anything but a witch’s dream could contain 
them. 

The approach of another passer roused him, and he 
started on. The step gained upon him — closed up with 
him; and at the moment when he expected to see the 
^person go by, a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. 

“ Mistoo Itchln, I ’ope you well, seh I” 


BROUGHT TO BAT. 


177 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

BROUGHT TO BAT. 

O NE may take his choice between the two, but there 
is no escaping both in this life: the creditor — the 
borrower. Either, but never neither. Narcisse caught 
step with Richling, and they walked side by side. 

“ How I learned to mawch, I billong with a fiah 
comp’ny,” said the Creole. “ We mawch eve’y yeah on 
the fourth of Mawch.” He laughed heartily. “ Thass a 
’ime ! —Mawch on the fourth of Mawch! Thass poetwy 
in fact, as you may say in a jesting way — ha ! ha I ha ! ” 
“Yes, and iPs truth, besides,” responded the drearier 
man. 

“Yes!” exclaimed Narcisse, delighted at the unusual 
coincidence, “ at the same time ’tis the tooth I In fact^ 
why should I tell a lie about such a thing like thaif 
’Twould be useless. Pe’haps you may ^ave notiz, Mistoo 
Itchlin, thad the noozpapehs opine us fiahmen to be 
the gau’dians of the city.” 

“ Yes,” responded Richling. “ I think Dr. Sevier 
calls you the Mamelukes, doesn’t he? But that’s much 
the same, I suppose.” 

“ Same thing,” replied the Creole. “We combad the 
fiah fiend. You fine that building ve’y pitto’esque, 
Mistoo Itchlin?” He jerked his thumb toward the 
prison, that was still pouring forth its clouds of impish 
wings. “ Yes? ’Tis the same with me. But I tell you 


178 


DR. SEVIER. 


one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, I assu’’ you, and you will 
believe me, I would ’atheh be lock’ outside of that building 
than to be lock* inside of the same. ’Cause — you know 
why? ’Tis ve’y ’umid in that building. An thass a 
thing w’at I believe, Mistoo Itchlin; I believe w’en a 
building is v’ey ’umid it is not ve’y ’ealthsome. What is 
yo’ opinion consunning that, Mistoo Itchlin ? ” 

“My opinion?” said Richling, with a smile. “My 
opinion is that the Parish Prison would not be a good 
place to raise a family.” 

Narcisse laughed. 

“I thing yo’ opinion is co’ect,” he said, flatteringly; 
then growing instantly serious, he added, “Yesseh, I 
think you’ about a-’ight, Mistoo Itchlin; faw even if 
’twas not too ’umid, ’twould be too confining, in fact, — 
speshly faw child’en. I dunno; but thass my opinion. 
If you ah p’dceeding at yo’ residence, Mistoo Itchlin, 
I’ll juz continue my p’omenade in yo’ society — if not 
intooding ”— 

Richling smiled candidly. “ Your company’s worth all 
it costs, Narcisse. Excuse me; I always forget your 
last name — and your first is so appropriate.” It was 
worth all it cost, though Richling could ill afford the 
purchase. The young Latin’s sweet, abysmal ignorance, 
his infantile amiability, his artless ambition, and heathen¬ 
ish innocence started the natural gladness of Richling’s 
blood to effervescing anew every time they met, and, 
through the sheer impossibility of confiding any of his 
troubles to the Creole, made him think them smaller and 
lighter than they had just before appeared. The very light 
of Narcisse’s countenance and beauty of his form — his 
smooth, low forehead, his thick, abundant locks, his 
faintly up-tipped nose and expanded nostrils, his sweet, 
weak mouth with its impending smile, his beautiful chin 


BROUGHT TO BAT. 


179 


a ad bird’s throat, his almond eyes, his full, round arm, 
and strong thigh— had their emphatic value. 

So now, Richling, a moment earlier borne down by 
the dreadful shadow of the Parish Prison, left it 
behind him as he walked and laughed and chatted with 
his borrower. He felt very free with Narcisse, for the 
reason that would have made a wiser person constrained, 
— lack of respect for him. 

“ Mistoo Itchlin, you know,” said the Creole, “ I like 
you to call me Nahcisse. But at the same time my las’ 
name is Savillot.” He pronounced it Sstv-veel-yo. “ Thass 
a some wot Spanish name. That double 1 got a twist in 
it.” 

“Oh, call it Papilio ! ” laughed Richling. 

“ Papillon ! ” exclaimed Narcisse, with delight. “The 
buttehfly ! All a-’ight; you kin juz style me that I ’Cause 
thass my natu’e, Mistoo Itchlin; I gatheh honey eve’y 
day fum eve’y opening floweh, as the bahd of A-von 
wemawk.” 

So they went on. 

Adinjinitum9 Ah, no! The end was just as plainly 
in view to both from the beginning as it was when, at 
length, the two stepping across the street gutter at the 
last corner between Richling and home, Narcisse laid his 
open hand in his companion’s elbow, and stopped, saying, 
as Richling turned and halted with a sudden frown of 
unwillingness: — 

“ I tell you ’ow ’tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin, Pva 
p’oject that manneh myseff; in weading a book — w’en 
I see a beaucheouz idee, I juz take a pencil ” —he drew 
one from his pocket — “check! I check it. So w’en I 
wead the same book again, then I take notiz I’ve check 
that idee and I look to see what I check it faw ’Ow 
you like tnat invention, eh?” 


180 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ Very simple/* said Richling, with an unpleasant look 
of expectancy. 

“ Mistoo Itchlin/* resumed the other, “ do you not 
fine me impooving in my pronouncement of yo* lang-widge ? 
I fine I don’t use such bad land-widge like biflfo. I am 
shue you muz’ ’ave notiz since some time I always soun’ 
that awer in yo’ name. Mistoo Itchlin, will you ’ave that 
kin’ness to baw me two-an-a-’alf till the lass of that 
month? ” 

Richling looked at him a moment in silence, and then 
broke into a short, grim laugh. 

“ It’s all gone. There’s no more honey in this flower.” 
He set his jaw as he ceased speaking. There was a 
warm red place on either cheek. 

“ Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, with sudden, qua¬ 
vering fervor, “ you kin len’ me two dollahs ! I gi’e you 
my honah the moze sacwed of a gen’leman, Mistoo 
Itchlin, I newah hass you ag’in so long I live!” He 
extended a pacifying hand. “One moment, Mistoo 
Itchlin,— one moment, — I implo’ you, seh! I assu’ you, 
Mistoo Itchlin, I pay you eve’y cent in the worl’ on the 
laz of that month? Mistoo Itchlin, I am in indignan* 
circumstan’s. Mistoo Itchlin, if you know the distwess 
— Mistoo Itchlin, if you know — ’ow bad I ’ate to baw 1 ” 
The tears stood in his eyes. “ It nea’ly IciU me to b— ” 
Utterance failed him. 

“ My friend,” began Richling. 

“Mistoo Itchlin,” exclaimed Narcisse, dashing away 
the tears and striking his hand on his heart, “I am yo’ 
fwend, seh! ” 

Richling smiled scornfully. “ Well, my good friend, if 
you had ever kept a single promise made to me I need 
not have gone since yesterday without a morsel of fcx)d.*' 

Narcisse tried to respond. 


BEOUQHT TO BAT. 


181 


‘‘Hush!*’ said Richling, and Narcisse bowed while 
Richling spoke on. “I haven’t a cent to buy bread with 
to carry home. And whose fault is it? Is it my fault 

— or is it yours ? ” 

“ Mistoo Itchlin, seh ” — 

“ Hush I ” cried Richling, again ; “ if you try to speak 
before I finish I’ll thrash you right here in the street! ” 

Narcisse folded his arms. Richling flushed and flashed 
with the mortifying knowledge that his companion’s be¬ 
havior was better than his own. 

“ If you want to borrow more money of me find me a 
chance to earn it! ” He glanced so suddenly at two or 
three street lads, who were the only on-lookers, that they 
shrank back a step. 

“Mistoo Itchlin,” began Narcisse, once more, in a 
tone of polite dismay, “ you aztonizh me. I assu’ you, 
Mistoo Itchlin ” — 

Richling lifted his finger and shook it. “ Don’t you 
tell me that, sir! I will not be an object of astonishment 
to you I Not to you, sir! Not to you ! ” He paused, 
trembling, his anger and his shame rising together. 

Narcisse stood for a moment, silent, undaunted, the 
picture of amazed friendship and injured dignity, then 
raised his hat with the solemnity of aflfronted patience 
and said: — 

“Mistoo Itchlin, seein’ as ’tis you, a puflSc gen’leman, 
’oo is not goin’ to ’efuse that satisfagtion w’at a gen¬ 
’leman, always a-’eady to give a gen’leman, — I bid you 

- - faw the pwesen’ — good-evenin’, seh! ” He walked 
away. 

Richling stood in his tracks dumfounded crushed. 
His eyes followed the receding form of the borrower until 
it disappeared around a distant corner, while the eye of 
his mind looked in upon himself and beheld, with a shame 


182 


DB. SEVIER. 


that overwhelmed anger, the folly and the puerility of hia 
outburst. The nervous strain of twenty-four hours’ fast^ 
without which he might not have slipped at all, only 
sharpened his self-condemnation. He turned and walked 
to his house, and all the misery that had oppressed him 
before he had seen the prison, and all that had come with 
that sight, and all this new shame, sank down upon his 
heart at once. “ I am not a man! I am not a whole 
man I ” he suddenly moaned to himself. “ Something is 
wanting — oh! what is it ? ” — he lifted his eyes to the 
sky, — “what is it?” — when in truth, there was little 
wanting just then besides food. 

He passed in at the narrow gate and up the slippery 
alley. Nearly at its end was the one window of the room 
he called home. Just under it — it was somewhat above 
his head — he stopped and listened. A step within was 
moving busily here and there, now fainter and now 
plainer; and a voice, the sweetest on earth to him, was 
singing to itself in its soft, habitual way. 

He started round to the door with a firmer tread. It 
stood open. He halted on the threshold. There was a 
small table in the middle of the room, and there was food 
on it. A petty reward of his wife’s labor had brought it 
there. 

“Mary,” he said, holding her off a little, “ don’t kiss 
me yet.” 

She looked at him with consternation. He sat down, 
drew her upon his lap, and told her, in plain, quiet voice, 
the whole matter. 

“ Don’t look so, Mary.” 

“ How? ” she asked, in a husky voice and with flashing 
eye. 

“ Don’t breathe so short and set your lips. I nevei 
saw you look so, Mary, darling I ” 


BEOUQHT TO BAY. 


18B 


She tried to smile, but her eyes filled. 

“ If you had been with me,” said John, musingly, “it 
wouldn’t have happened.” 

“If — if”— Mary sat up as straight as a dart, the 
comers of her mouth twitching so that she could scarcely 
shape a word,—“if — if I’d been there. I’d have made 
70 U whip him ! ” She fiouted her handkerchief out of her 
ix)cket, buried her face in his neck, and sobbed like a 
child. 

“ Oh I ” exclaimed the tearful John, holding her away 
by both shoulders, tossing back his hair and laughing as 
she laughed, —“ Oh! you women I You’re all of a sort! 
Tou want us men to carry your hymn-books and youi 
iniquities, too! ” 

She laughed again. 

“ Well, of course I ” 

And they rose and drew up to the boAzd. 


184 


DR. SEVIEB. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE DOCTOR DINES OUT« 

O N the third day after these incidents, again at the 
sunset hour, but in a very different part of the 
town. Dr. Sevier sat down, a guest, at dinner. There 
were flowers ; there was painted and monogrammed china; 
there was Bohemian glass; there was silver of cunning 
work with linings of gold,, and damasked linen, and oak 
of fantastic carving. There were ladies in summer silks 
and elaborate coiffures; the hostess, small, slender, 
gentle, alert; another, dark, flashing, Roman, tall; 
another, ripe but not drooping, who had been beautiful, 
now, for thirty years; and one or two others. There 
were jewels ; there were sweet odors. And there were, 
also, some good masculine heads: Dr. Sevier's, for in¬ 
stance ; and the chief guest’s, — an iron-gray, with hard 
lines in the face, and a scar on the near cheek, — a colonel 
of the regular army passing through from Florida; and 
one crown, bald, pink, and shining, encircled by a silken 
fringe of very white hair: it was the bankei who lived in 
St. Mary street. His wife was opposite. And there was 
much high-bred grace. There were tall windows thrown 
wide to make the blaze of gas bearable, and two tall mu- 
lattoes in the middle distance bringing in and bearing out 
viands too sumptuous for any but a French nomenclature. 

It was what you would call a quiet affair; quite out of 
season, and diflScult to furnish with even this little hand¬ 
ful of guests ; but it was a proper and necessary attention 


THE DOOTOK DINES OUT. 


185 


to the colonel; conversation not too dull, nor yet too 
bright for ease, but passing gracefully from one agreeable 
topic to another without earnestness, a restless virtue, or 
frivolity, which also goes against serenity. Now it 
touched upon the prospects of young A. B. in the demise 
of his uncle ; now upon the probable seriousness of C. D. 
in his attentions to E. F.; now upon G.’s amusing mis¬ 
haps during a late tour in Switzerland, which had — 
“how unfortunately!’^ — got into the papers. Now it 
was concerning the admirable pulpit manners and easily 
pardoned vocal defects of a certain new rector. Now it 
turned upon Stephen A. Douglas’s last speech ; passed to 
the questionable merits of a new-fangled punch; and 
now, assuming a slightly explanatory form from the 
gentlemen to the ladies, showed why there was no need 
whatever to fear a financial crisis — which came soon 
afterward. 

The colonel inquired after an old gentleman whom he 
had known in earlier days in Kentucky. 

“It’s many a year since I met him,” he said. “The 
proudest man I ever saw. I understand he was down 
here last season.” 

“ He was,” replied the host, in a voice of native kind¬ 
ness, and with a smile on his high-fed face. “ He was; 
but only for a short time. He went back to his estate. 
That is his world. He’s there now.” 

“ It used to be considered one of the finest places in 
the State.” said the colonel. 

“It is still,” rejoined the host. “ Doctor, you know 
him?” 

“I think not,” said Dr. Sevier; but somehow he re¬ 
called the old gentleman in button gaiters, who had called 
on him one evening to consult him about his sick wife. 

“A good man,” said the colonel, looking amused; 


186 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ and a superb gentleman. Is he as great a partisan of 
the church as Ije used to be ? ” 

“ Greater I Favors an established church of America.** 

The ladies were much amused. The host’s son, a 
young fellow with sprouting side-whiskers, said bethought 
he could be quite happy with one of the finest plantt^tions 
in Kentucky, and let the church go its own gait. 

“ Humph ! ” said the father; “ I doubt if there’s ever a 
happy breath drawn on the place.” 

“ Why, how is that?” asked the colonel, in a cautious 
tcne. 

‘ ‘ Hadn’t he heard ? ” The host was surprised, but 
spoke 1 >w. “ Hadn’t he heard about the trouble with their 

only son? Why, he went abroad and never came back ! ” 

Every one listened. 

“It’s a terrible thing,” said the hostess to the ladies 
nearest her; “no one ever dares ask the family what the 
trouble is, — they have such odd, exclusive ideas about 
their matters being nobody’s business. All that can be 
known is that they look upon him as worse than dead and 
gone forever.” 

“ And who will get the estate?” asked the banker. 

“ The two girls. They’re both married.” 

“ They’re very much like their father,” said the hostess, 
smiling with gentle signifi^nce. 

“Very much,” echoed l^ie host, with less delicacy. 
“ Their mother is one of those women who stand in terror 
of Iheir husband’s will. Now, if he were to die and leave 
b;r with a will of her own she would hardly know what to 
do with it — I mean with her will — or the property 
either.” 

The hostess protested softly against so harsh a speech, 
ant the son, after one or two failures, got in his re¬ 
mark : — 


THE DOOTOE DINES OUT. 


187 


“ Maybe the prodigal would come back and be taken 
in.” 

But nobody gave this conjecture much attention. The 
host was still talking of the lady without a will. 

“ Isn’t she an invalid? ” Dr. Sevier had asked. 

“ Yes; the trip down here last season was on her 
account, — for change of scene. Her health is wretched.” 

“ I’m distressed that I didn’t call on her,” said the 
hostess; “but they went away suddenly. My dear, I 
wonder if they really did encounter the 3 ’oung man here ? ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” said the husband, softly, smiling and shaking 
his head, and turned the conversation. 

In time it settled down with something like earnestness 
for a few minutes upon a subject which the rich find it 
easy to discuss without the least risk of undue warmth. 
It was about the time when one of the graciously mur¬ 
muring mulattoes was replenishing the glasses, that 
remark in some way found utterance to this effect, — that 
the company present could congratulate themselves on 
living in a community where there was no poor class. 

“ Poverty, of course, we see; but there is no misery, 
or nearly none,” said the ambitious son of the host. 

Dr. Sevier differed with him. That was one of the 
Doctor’s blemishes as a table guest: he would differ with 
people. 

“There is misery,” he said; “maybe not the gaunt 
squalor and starvation of London or Paris or New York ; 
the climate does not tolerate that,— stamps it out before 
it can assume dimensions ; but there is at least misery of 
that sort that needs recognition and aid from the well- 
fed.” 

The lady who had been beautiful so many years had 
somewhat to say; the physician gave attention, and she 
spoke I — 


188 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ If sister Jane were here, she would be perfectly tri 
umphant to hear you speak so, Doctor.” She turned to 
the hostess, and continued: “ Jane is quite an enthusiast, 
you know; a sort of Dorcas, as husband says, modified 
and readapted. Yes, she is for helping everybody ” 

“ Whether help is good for them or not,” said the lady’s 
husband, a very straight and wiry man with a garrot^i 
collar. 

It’s all one,” laughed the lady. “ Our new rector told 
her plainly, the other day, that she was making a great 
mistake; that she ought to consider whether assistance 
assists. It was really amusing. Out of the pulpit and 
off his guard, you know, he lisps a little ; and he said she 
ought to consider whether ‘ aththithtanth aththithtth.’ ” 

There was a gay laugh at this, and the lady was called 
a perfect and cruel mimic. 

“‘Aththithtanth aththithtth! ’ ” said two or three to 
their neighbors, and laughed again. 

“ What did your sister say to that?” asked the banker, 
bending forward his white, tonsured head, and smiling 
down the board. 

“ She said she didn’t care; that it kept her own heart 
tender, anyhow. ‘ My dear madam,’ said he, ‘ your heart 
wants strengthening more than softening.’ He told her 
a pound of inner resource was more true help to any poor 
person than a ton of assistance.” 

The banker commended the rector. The hostess, very 
sweetly, offered her guarantee that Jane took the rebuke 
in good part. 

“She did,” replied the time-honored beauty; “she 
tried to profit by it. But husband, here, has offered hci 
a wager of a bonnet against a hat that the rector will 
upset her new schemes. Her idea now is to make work 
for those whom nobody will employ.” 


THE DOCTOR DINES OUT. 


189 


“ Jane,’* said the kind-faced host, “really wants to do 
good for its own sake.” 

“I think she’s even a little Romish in her notions,” 
said Jane’s wiry brother-in-law. “I talked to her as 
plainly as the rector. I told her, ‘ Jane, my dear, all this 
making of work for the helpless poor is not worth one 
fiftieth part of the same amount of effort spent in teaching 
and training those same poor to make their labor intrin¬ 
sically marketable.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said the hostess; “ but while we are philoso¬ 
phizing and offering advice so wisely, Jane is at work — 
doing the best she knows how. We can’t claim the honor 
even of making her mistakes.” 

“ ’Tisn’t a question of honors to us, madam,” said Dr. 
Sevier; “ it’s a question of results to the poor.” 

The brother-in-law had not finished. He turned to the 
Doctor. 

“ Poverty, Doctor, is an inner condition”— 

“ Sometimes,” interposed the Doctor. 

“Yes, generally,” continued the brother-in-law, with 
some emphasis. “ And to give help you must, first of all, 
‘ inquire within ’—within your beneficiary.” 

“ Not always, sir,” replied the Doctor ; “ not if they’re 
sick, for instance.” The ladies bowed briskly and ap¬ 
plauded with their eyes. “ And not always if they’re 
well,” he added. His last words softened off almost into 
soliloquy. 

The banker spoke forcibly : — 

“ Yes, there are two quite distinct kinds of poverty 
One is an accident of the moment; the other is an inner 
condition of the individual ”— 

“ Of coarse it is,” said sister Jane’s brother-in-law, 
who fell it a little to have been contradicted on the side 
of kindness by the hard-spoken Doctor. “ Certainly I it’p 


190 


DE. SEVIER. 


a deficiency of inner resources or character, and what to 
do with it is no simple question.” 

“ That’s what I was about to say,” resumed the 
banker; “at least, when the poverty is of that sort. 
And what discourages kind people is that that’s the sort 
we commonly see. It’s a relief to meet the other, Doctor, 
just as it’s a relief to a physician to encounter a case of 
simple surgery.” 

“ And — and,” said the brother-in-law, “ what is your 
rule about plain almsgiving to the difficult sort ? ” 

“ My rule,” replied the banker, “ is, don’t do it. Debt 
is slavery, and there is an ugly kink in human nature 
that disposes it to be content with slavery. No, sir; 
gift-making and gift-taking are twins of a bad blood.” 
The speaker turned to Dr. Sevier for approval; but, 
though the Doctor could not gainsay the fraction of a 
point, he was silent. A lady near the hostess stirred 
softly both under and above the board. In her private 
chamber she would have yawned. Yet the banker spoke 
again; — 

“ Help the old, I say. You are pretty safe there. 
Help the sick. But as for the young and strong, — now, 
no man could be any poorer than I was at twenty-one, — 
I say be cautious how you smooth that hard road which 
is the finest discipline the young can possibly get.” 

“ If it isn’t too hard,” chirped the son of the host. 

“Too hard? Well, yes, if it isn’t too hard. Still I 
Bay, hands off; you needn’t turn your back, however.” 
Here the speaker again singled out Dr. Sevier. “ Watch 
the young man out of one corner of your eye ; jvt make 
him swim! ” 

“ Ah-h ! ” said the ladies. 

“ No, no,” continued the banker ; “ I don’t say let him 
drown; but I take it. Doctor, that your alma, for ii^ 


THE DOCTOR DINES OUT. 


191 


stance, are no alms if they put the poor fellow into your 
debt and at your back.” 

“ To whom do you refer? ” asked Dr. Sevier. Whereat 
there was a burst of laughter, which was renewed when 
the banker charged the physician with helping so many 
persons, “ on the sly,” that h€ couldn’t tell which one 
was alluded to unless the name were given. 

“ Doctor,” said the hostess, seeing it was high time the 
conversation should take a new direction, “ they tell me 
you have closed your house and taken rooms at the St. 
Charles.” 

“ For the summer,” said the physician. 

As, later, he walked toward that hotel, he went resolv¬ 
ing to look up the Richlings again without delay. The 
banker’s words rang in his ears like an overdose of qui¬ 
nine : “ Watch the young man out of one corner of your 
eye. Make him swim. I don’t say let him drown.” 

“ Well, I do watch him,” thought the Doctor. “ I’ve 
only lost sight of him once in a while.” But the thought 
seemed to find an echo against his conscience, and when 
it floated back it was: ‘ ‘ I’ve only caught sight of him 
once in a while.” The banker’s words came up again: 
“ Don’t put the poor fellow into your debt and at your 
back.” “ Just what you’ve done,” said conscience. 
“ How do you know he isn’t drowned? ” He would see 
to it. 

While he was still on his way to the hotel he fell in 
with an acquaintance, a Judge Somebody or other, lately 
from Washington City. He, also, lodged at the St. 
Charles. They went together. As they approached the 
majestic porch of the edifice they noticed some confusion 
at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the rotunda; 
cabmen and boys were running to a common point, where, 
in the midst of a small, compact crowd, two or three 


192 


DR. SEVIER. 


pairs of arms were being alternately thrown aloft and 
brought down. Presently the mass took a rapid move- 
ment up St. Charles street. 

The judge gave his conjecture: “ Some poor devil 
resisting arrest.” 

Before he and the Doctor parted for the night they 
went to the clerk’s counter. 

“No letters for you, Judge; mail failed. Here is a 
card for you, Doctor.” 

The Doctor received it. It had been furnished, blank, 
by the clerk to its writer. 


John Richlinq. 


At the door of his own room, with one hand on the 
unturned knob and one holding the card, the Doctor 
stopped and reflected. The card gave no indication of 
urgency. Did it? It was hard to tell. He didn’t want 
to look foolish; morning would be time enough; he 
would go early next morning. 

But at daybreak he was summoned post-haste to the 
bedside of a lady who had stayed all summer in New 
Orleans so as not to be out of this good doctor’s reach at 
this juncture. She counted him a dear friend, and in 
similar trials had always required close and continual 
attention. It was the same now. 

Dr. Sevier scrawled and sent to the Richlings a line, 
saying that, if either of them was sick, he would come at 
their call. When the messenger returned with word from 
Mrs. Riley that both of them were out, the Doctor’s 
mind was much relieved. So a day and a nigh^ passed< 
in which he did not close his eyes. 



THE DOCTOR DINES OUT. 


193 


TJie next morning, as he stood in his office, hat in 
hand, and a finger pointing to a prescription on his desk, 
which he was directing Narcisse to give to some cue who 
would call for it, there came a sudden hurried pounding 
of feminine feet on the stairs, a whiff of robes in the 
corridor, and Mary Richling rushed into his presence all 
fears and cries. 

“ O Doctor! — O Doctor I O God, my husband! my 
husband I O Doctor, my husband is in the Parish 
Prison! She sank to the floor. 

The Doctor raised her up. Narcisse hurried forward 
with his hands full of restoratives. 

“ Take away those things,” said the Doctor, resent¬ 
fully. “Here! — Mrs. Richling, take Narcisse^s arm 
and go down and get into my carriage. I must write a 
short note, excusing myself from an appointment, and 
then I will join you.” 

Mary stood alone, turned, and passed out of the office 
beside the young Creole, but without taking his proffered 
arm. Did she suspect him of having something to do 
with this dreadful affair? 

“ Missez Wichlin,” said he, as soon as they were out 
in the corridor, “ I dunno if you goin* to biliiv me, but I 
boun’ to tell you that nodwithstanning that yo* ’uzban’ is 
displease* with me, an* nodwithstanning *e’s in that cala¬ 
boose, I h*alway8 fine *im a puffic gen*leman — that 
Mistoo Itchlin, — an* Pll sweah *e is a gen’leman I ** 

She lifted her anguished eyes and looked into his 
beautiful face. Could she trust him? His little forehead 
was as hard as a goat*s, but his eyes were brimming with 
tears, and his chin quivered. As they reached the head 
of the stairs he again offered his arm, and she took it, 
moaning softly, as they descended: — 

“ O John ! O John I O my husband, my husband I ” 


194 


DR. SEVIER. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE TROUGH OF THE SEA, 


ARCISSE, on receiving his scolding from Richling, 



had gone to his home in Casa Calvo street, a much 
greater sufferer than he had appeared to be. While he 
was confronting his abaser there had been a momentary 
comfort in the contrast between Richling’s ill-behavior 
and his own self-control. It had stayed his spirit and 
turned the edge of Richling’s sharp denunciations. But, 
as he moved off the field, he found himself, at every step, 
more deeply wounded than even he had supposed. He 
began to suffocate with chagrin, and hurried his steps in 
sheer distress. He did not experience that dull, vacant 
acceptance of universal scorn which an unresentful 
coward feels. His pangs were all the more poignant 
because he knew his own courage. 

In his home he went so straight up to the withered 
little old lady, in the dingiest of flimsy black, who was his 
aunt, and kissed her so passionately, that she asked at 
once what was the matter. He recounted the facts, 
shedding tears of mortification. Her feeling, by the 
time he had finished the account, was a more anmixed 
wrath than his, and, harmless as she was, and wraj ped 
up in her dear, pretty nephew as she was, she yet de¬ 
manded to know why such a man shouldn’t be called out 
upon the field of honor. 

“ Ah ! ” cried Narcisse, shrinkingly. She had touched 
the core of the tumor. One gets a prblic tongue-lashing 


THU TROUGH OF THE 8EA. 


195 


from a man concerning money borrowed; well, how is one 
going to challenge him without first handing back the 
borrowed money ? It was a scalding thought! The rot¬ 
ten joists beneath the bare scrubbed-to-death floor quaked 
under Narcisse’s to-and-fro stride. 

“ — And then, anyhow ! ” — he stopped and extended 
both hands, speaking, of course, in French, — “anyhow, 
fee is the favored friend of Dr. Sevier. If I hurt him — I 
iose my situation ! If he hurts me — I lose my situation ! 

He dried his eyes. His aunt saw the insurmountability 
of the difficulty, and they drowned feeling in an affec¬ 
tionate glass of green-orangeade. 

“ But never mind! ” Narcisse set his glass down and 
drew out his tobacco. He laughed spasmodically as he 
rolled his cigarette. “You shall see. The game is not 
finished yet.” 

Yet Richling passed the next day and night without 
assassination, and on the second morning afterward, as 
on the first, went out in quest of employment. He and 
Mary had eaten bread, and it had gone into their life 
without a remainder either in larder or purse. Richling 
was all aimless. 

“ I do wish I had the art of finding work,” said he. 
He smiled. “ I’ll get it,” he added, breaking their last 
trust in two. “ I have the science already. Why, look 
you, Mary, the quiet, amiable, imperturbable, dignified, 
diurnal, inexorable haunting of men of influence will get 
you whatever you want.” 

“Well, why don’t you do it, dear? Is there any harm 
in it ? I don’t see any harm in it. Why don’t you do 
that very thing?” 

“I’m telling you the*truth,” answered he, ignoring her 
question. “Nothing else short of overtowering merit 
will get you what you want half so surely.” 


196 


DR. SEVIER. 


“Well, why not do it? Why not?” A fresh, glad 
courage sparkled in the wife^s ej’es. 

“ Why, Maiy,” said John, “ I never m my life tried so 
hard to do anything else as I’ve tried to do that I It 
sounds easy ; but try it! You can’t conceive how hard it 
is till you try it. I can’t do it! I can't do it I ” 

“/’d do it!” cried Mary. Her face shone. “Pd do 
it I You’d see if I didn’t! Why, John ” — 

“All right!” exclaimed he; “you sha’n’t talk that 
way to me for nothing. I’ll try it again ! I’ll begin to¬ 
day ! ” 

“ Good-by,” he said. He reached an arm over one of 
her shoulders and around under the other and drew her 
up on tiptoe. She threw both hers about his neck. A 
bng kiss — then a short one. 

“ John, something tells me we’re near the end of our 
troubles.” 

John laughed grimly. “Ristofalo was to get back to 
the city to-day: maybe he’s going to put us out of our 
misery. There are two ways for troubles to end.” He 
walked away as he spoke. As he passed under the 
window in the alley, its sash was thrown up and Mary 
leaned out on her elbows. 

“ John! ” 

“Well?” 

They looked into each other’s eyes with the quiet pleas¬ 
ure of tried lovers, and were silent a moment. Sh® 
leaned a little farther down, and said, softly: — 

“ You mustn’t mind what I said just now.” 

“ Why, what did 3^ou say ? ” 

“ That if it were I, I’d do it. I know you can do any¬ 
thing I can do, and a hundred better things besides.” 

He lifted his hand to her cheek. “ We’ll see,” he 
whispered. She drew in, and he n»Dved on. 


THE TROUGH OF THE SEA. 


191 


Morning passed. Noon came. From horizon to hori¬ 
zon the sky was one unbroken blue. The sun spread its 
bright, hot rays down upon the town and far beyond, 
ripening the distant, countless fields cf the great delta, 
which by and by were to empty their a] undance into the 
city’s lap for the employment, the nourishing, the cloth¬ 
ing of thousands. But in the dusty streets, along the 
ill-kept fences and shadowless walls of the quiet districts, 
and on the glaring fa9ades and heated pavements of the 
commercial quarters, it seemed only as though the slowly 
retreating summer struck with the fury of a wounded 
Amazon. Richling was soon dust-covered and weary. 
He had gone his round. There were not many men 
whom he could even propose to haunt. He had been to 
all of them. Dr. Sevier was not one. “ Not to-day,*' 
said Richling. 

“ It all depends on the way it’s done,” he said to him¬ 
self ; “ it needn’t degrade a man if it’s done the right 
way.” It was only by such philosophy he had done it at 
all. Ristofalo he could have haunted without effort; but 
Ristofalo was not to be found. Richling tramped in vain. 
It may be that all plans were of equal merit just then. 
The summers of New Orleans in those times were, as to 
commerce, an utter torpor, and the autumn reawakening 
was very tardy. It was still too early for the stirrings of 
general mercantile life. The movement of the cotton crop 
was just beginning to be perceptible ; but otherwise almost 
the only sounds were from the hammers of craftsmen 
making the town larger and preparing it for the activities 
of days to come. 

The afternoon wore along. Not a cent yet to carrj 
home! Men began to shut their idle shops and go to 
meet their wives and children about their comfortable 
dinner-tables. The sun dipped low. Hammers and saw* 


198 


DR. SEVIER. 


were dropped into tool-boxes, and painters pulled them* 
selves out of their overalls. The mechanic’s rank, hot 
supper began to smoke on its bare board ; but there was 
one board that was still altogether bare and to which no 
one hastened. Another day and another chance of life 
were gone. 

Some men at a warehouse door, the only opening in the 
building left unclosed, were hurrying in a few bags of 
shelled corn. Night was falling. At an earlier hour 
Richling had offered the labor of his hands at this very 
door and had been rejected- Now, as they rolled in the 
last truck-load, they began to ask for rest with all the 
gladness he would have felt to be offered toil, singing, — 

“ To blow, to blow, some time for to blow.” 

They swung the great leaves of the door together as they 
finished their chorus, stood grouped outside a moment 
while the warehouseman turned the resounding lock, and 
when went away. Richling, who had moved on, watched 
them over his shoulder, and as they left turned back. He 
was about to do what he had never done before. He went 
back to the door where the bags of grain had stood. A 
drunken sailor came swinging along. He stood still and 
let him pass; there must be no witnesses. The sailoi 
turned the next corner. Neither up nor down nor across 
the street, nor at dust-begrimed, cobwebbed window, was 
there any sound or motion. Richling dropped quickly on 
one knee and gathered hastily into his pocket a little pile 
of shelled com that had leaked from one of the bags. 

I'hat was all. No harm to a living soul; no theft; no 
wrong; but ah 1 as he rose he felt a sudden inward lesion. 
Something broke. It was like a ship, in a dream, ncise* 
lessly striking a rock where no rock is. It seemed as 


THE TROUGH OF THE SEA. 


199 


though the very next thing was to begin going to pieces. 
He walked off in the dark shadow of the warehouse, half 
lifted from his feet by a vague, wide dismay. And yet 
he felt no greatness of emotion, but rather a painful want 
of it, as if he were here and emotion were yonder, down- 
street, or up-street, or around the corner. The ground 
seemed slipping from under him. He appeared to have 
all at once melted away to nothing. He stopped. Ho 
even turned to go back. He felt that if he should go and 
put that corn down where he had found it he should feel 
himself once more a living thing of substance and emo¬ 
tions. Then it occurred to him — no, he would keep it j 
he would take it to Mary; but himself—he would not 
touch it; and so he went home. 

Mary parched the corn, ground it fine in the coflfee-mill 
and salted and served it close beside the candle. “ It’s 
good white corn,” she said, laughing. “Many a time 
when I was a child I used to eat this in my playhouse 
and thought it delicious. Didn’t you? What! not going 
to eat?” 

Richling had told her how he got the corn. Now he 
told his sensations. “ You eat it, Mary,” he said at the 
end; “you needn’t feel so about it; but if I should eat 
it I should feel myself a vagabond. It may be foolish, 
but I wouldn’t touch it for a hundred dollars.” A hun¬ 
dred dollars had come to be his synonyme for infinity. 

Mary gazed at him a moment tearfully, and rose, with 
the dish in her hand, saying, with a smile, “ I’d look 
pretty, wouldn’t 11 ” 

She set it aside, and came and kissed his forehead. By 
and by she asked: — 

“ And so you saw no work, anywhere?” 

“ Oh, yes I ” he replied, in a tone almost free from dejec- 
on. “I saw any amount of work — preparations for a 


200 


DK. SEVIEE. 


big season. I think I certainly shall pick up something 
to-morrow—enough, anyhow, to buy something to eat 
with. If we can only hold out a little longer—just a 
little — lam sure there’ll be plenty to do— for everj^body.” 
Then he began to show distress again. “ I could have 
got work to-day if I had been a carpenter, or if I’d 
been a joiner, or a slater, or a bricklayer, or a plasterer, or 
a painter, or a hod-carrier. Didn’t I try that, and was 
refused?” 

“ I’m glad of it,” said Mary. 

“ ‘ Show me your hands,’ said the man to me. I 
showed them. “ ‘ You won’t do,’ said he.” 

“ I’m glad of it I ” said Mary, again. 

“ No,” continued Richling ; “ or if I’d been a glazier, 
or a whitewasher, or a wood-sawyer, or ” — he began to 
smile in a hard, unpleasant way, — “ or if I’d been any¬ 
thing but an American gentleman. But I wasn’t, and I 
didn’t get the work I ” 

Mary sank into his lap, with her very best smile. 

“John, if you hadn’t been an American gentle¬ 
man ”— 

“We should never have met,” said John. “That’s 
true; that’s true.” They looked at each other, rejoicing 
in mutual ownership. 

“ But,” said John, “ I needn’t have been the typical 
American gentleman,—completely unfitted for prosperity 
and totally unequipped for adversity.” 

“ That’s not your fault,” said Mary. 

“No, not entirely; but it’s your calamity, Mary. C 
Mary! I little thought ”— 

She put her hand quickly upon his mouth. His eye 
flashed and he frowned. 

“ Don’t do so I” he exclaimed, putting the hand away 
then blushed for shame, and kissed her. 


THE TROUGH OF THE SEA. 


201 


They went to bed. Bread would have put them to 
sleep. But after a long time — 

“John,” said one voice in the darkness, “do you 
remember what Dr. Sevier told us ? ” 

“Yes, he said we had no right to commit suicide by 
starvation.” 

“ If you don’t get work to-morrow, are you going to 
see him? ” 

“ I am.” 

In the morning they rose early. 

During these hard days Mary was now and then 
conscious of one feeling which she never expressed, and 
was always a little more ashamed of than probably she 
need have been, but which, stifle it as she would, kept re¬ 
curring in moments of stress. Mrs. Riley — such was the 
thought — need not be quite so blind. It came to her as 
John once more took his good-by, the long kiss and 
the short one, and went breakfastless away. But was 
Mrs. Riley as blind as she seemed? She had vision 
enough to observe that the Richlings had bought no bread 
the day before, though she did overlook the fact that 
emptiness would set them astir before their usual hour of 
rising. She knocked at Mary’s inner door. As it 
opened a quick glance showed the little table that 
occupied -the centre of the room standing clean and 
idle. 

“ Why, Mrs. Riley I ” cried Mary; for on one of Mis 
Riley’s large hands there rested a blue-edged soup-plate, 
heaping full of the food that goes nearest to the Creole 
heart — jambolaya. There it was, steaming and smelling, 

_a delicious confusion of rice and red pepper, chicken 

legs, ham, and tomatoes. Mike, on her opposite arm, 
was struggling to lave his socks in it. 

“ Ah I ” said Mrs. Riley, with a disappointed lift of th# 


202 


DR* SEVIER. 


head, “ye’re after eating breakfast iJready 1 And th« 
plates all tleared off. Well, ye air smairti I knowed 
Mr. Richlin’s taste for jumbalie ”— 

Mary smote her hands together. “And he’s just this 
instant gone I John! John! Why, he’s hardly ”— She 
vanished through the door, glided down the alley, leaned 
out the gate, looking this way and that, tripped down to 
this corner and looked —“ Oh! oh ! ” — no John there — 
back and up to the other corner—“ Oh! which way did 
John go?” There was none to answer. 

Hours passed; the shadows shortened and shrunk under 
their objects, crawled around stealthily behind them as 
the sun swung through the south, and presently began to 
steal away eastward, long and slender. This was the 
day that Dr. Sevier dined out, as hereinbefore set 
forth. 

The sun set. Carondelet street was deserted. You 
jould hear your own footstep on its flags. In St. Charles 
i:treet the drinking-saloons and gamblers’ drawing-rooms, 
and the barber-shops, and the show-cases full of shirt- 
bosoms and walking-canes, were lighted up. The smell 
of lemons and mint grew finer than ever. Wide Canal 
street, out under the darkling crimson sky, was resplen¬ 
dent with countless many-colored lamps. From the river 
the air came softly, cool and sweet. The telescope man 
set up his skyward-pointing cylinder hard by the dark 
statue of Henry Clay ; the confectioneries were ablaze and 
full of beautiful life, and every little while a great, empty 
cotton-dray or two went thundering homeward over the 
stony pavements until the earth shook, and speech for the 
moment was drowned. The St. Charles, such a glittering 
mass in winter nights, stood out high and dark unJer the 
summer stars, with no glow except just in its midst, in the 
rotunda; and even the rotunda was well-nigh deserted 


THE TROUGH OT THE SEA. 


203 


The clerk at his counter saw a young man enter the 
great door opposite, and quietly marked him as he drew 
near. 

Let us not draw the stranger’s portrait K that were a 
pleasant task the clerk would not have watched him. 
What caught and kept that functionary’s eye was that, 
whatever else might be revealed by the stranger’s aspect, 
— weariness, sickness, hardship, pain,— the confession 
was written all over him, on his face, on his garb, from 
his hat’s crown to his shoe’s sole. Penniless I Penniless! 
Only when he had come quite up to the counter the clerk 
did not see him at all. 

“ Is Dr. Sevier in?” 

“Gone out to dine,” said the clerk, looking over the 
inquirer’s head as if occupied with aU the world’s affairs 
except the subject in hand. 

“ Do you know when he will be back?” 

“ Ten o’clock.” 

The visitor repeated the hour murmurously and looked 
something dismayed. He tarried. 

“ Hem! — I will leave my card, if you please.” 

The clerk shoved a little box of cards toward him, from 
which a pencil dangled by a string. The penniless wrote 
his name and handed it in. Then he moved away, went 
down the tortuous granite stair, and waited in the ob¬ 
scurity of the dimly lighted porch below. The card 
was to meet the contingency of the Doctor’s coming 
in by some other entrance. He would watch for him 
here. 

By and by — he was very weary — he sat down on th« 
stairs. But a porter, with a huge trunk on his back, told 
him very distinctly that he was in the way there, and he 
rose and stood aside. Soon he looked for another resting- 
place. He must get off of his feet somewhere, if only foi 


204 


DK« SEVIER* 


a few moments. He moved back into the deep gloon 
of the stair-way shadow, and sank down upon the pave* 
ment. In a moment he was fast asleep. 

He dreamed that he, too, was dining out. Laughter 
and merry-making were on every side. The dishes ol 
steaming viands were grotesque in bulk. There were 
mountains of fruit and torrents of wine. Strange peop.e 
of no identity spoke in senseless vaporings that passed 
for side-splitting wit, and friends whom he had not seen 
since childhood appeared in ludicrously altered forms and 
announced impossible events. Every one ate like a Cos¬ 
sack. One of the party, champing like a boar, pushed 
him angrily, and when he, eating like the rest, would 
have turned fiercely on the aggressor, he awoke. 

A man standing over him struck him smartly with his 
foot. 

“ Get up out o’ this ! Get up I get up! ” 

The sleeper bounded to his feet. The man who had 
waked him grasped him by the lapel of his coat. 

“What do youmean?” exclaimed the awakened man, 
throwing the other off violently. 

“ I’ll show you I ” replied the other, returning with a 
msn; but he- was thrown off again, this time with a blow 
of the fist. 

“ You scoundrel I ” cried the penniless man, in a rage ; 
“ if you touch me again I’ll kill you I ” 

They leaped together. The one who had proposed tc 
show what he meant was knocked flat upon the stones 
The crowd that had run into the porch made room for him 
to fall. A leather helmet rolled from his head, and the 
silver crescent of the police flashed on his breast. The 
police were not uniformed in those days. 

But he is up in an instant and his adversary is down — 
backward, on hh elbows. Then the penniless man is up 


THE TROUGH OF THE SEA. 


205 


Again; they close and struggle, the night-watchman’s cluh 
falls across his enemy’s head blow upon blow, while the 
sufferer grasps him desperately, with both hands, by the 
throat. They tug, they snuffle, they reel to and fro in 
the yielding crowd; the blows grow fainter, fainter; the 
grip is terrible ; when suddenly there is a violent rupture 
of the crowd, it closes again, and then there are two 
against one, and up sparkling St. Charles street, the street 
of all streets for flagrant, unmolested, well-dressed crime, 
moves a sight so exhilarating that a score of street lads 
follow behind and a dozen trip along in front with frequent 
backward glances : two oflScers of justice walking in grim 
silence abreast, and between them a limp, torn, hatless, 
bloody figure, partly walking, partly lifted, partly dragged, 
past the theatres, past the lawyers’ rookeries of Commer¬ 
cial place, the tenpin alleys, the chop-houses, the bunko 
shows, and shooting-galleries, on, across Poydras street 
into the dim openness beyond, where glimmer the lamps 
of Lafayette square and the white marble of the municipal 
hall, and just on the farther side of this, with a sudden 
wheel to the right into Hevia street, a few strides there, 
a turn to the left, stumbling across a stone step and 
wooden sill into a narrow, lighted hall, and turning and 
entering an apartment here again at the right. The door 
is shut; the name is written down; the charge is made; 
Vagrancy, assaulting an oflScer, resisting arrest. An inner 
door is opened. 

“ What have you got in number nine? ” asks the cap¬ 
tain in charge. 

Chuck-full,” replies the turnkey. 

“Well, lumber seven?” These were che numbers of 
cells. 

“ The rats ’ll eat him up in number seven.” 

“ How about number ten ? ” 


206 


DB. BEYIEB. 


“Two drunk-and-disorderlies, one petty larceny, and 
one embezzlement and breach of trust.*^ 

“ Put him in there.” 


And this explains what the watchman in Marais street 
could not understand, — why Mary Richling’a windon 
shone aU night long. 



OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN. 


207 


CHAPTER XXVn. 

OUT OP THE FETIKQ-PAN. 

R ound goes the wheel forever. Another sun rose up, 
not a moment hurried or belated by the myriaii 
of life-and-death issues that cover the earth and wait in 
ecstasies of hope or dread the passage of time. Punctu¬ 
ally at ten Justice-in-the-rough takes its seat in the 
Recorder’s Court, and a moment of silent preparation at 
the desks follows the loud announcement that its session 
has begun. The perky clerks and. smirking pettifoggers 
move apart on tiptoe, those to their respective stations, 
these to their privileged seats facing the high dais. The 
lounging police slip down from their reclining attitudes on 
the heel-scraped and whittled window-sills. The hum of 
voices among the forlorn humanity that half fills the 
gradually rising, greasy benches behind, allotted to wit¬ 
nesses and prisoners’ friends, is hushed. In a little 
square, railed space, here at the left, the reporters tip 
their chairs against the hair-greased wall, and sharpen 
their pencils. A few tardy visitors, familiar with the place, 
tiptoe in through the grimy doors, ducking and winking, 
and softly lifting and placing their chairs, with a mock- 
timorous upward glance toward the long, ungainly per¬ 
sonage who, under a faded and tattered crimson canopy, 
fills the august bench of magistracy with its high oaken 
back. On the right, behind a rude wooden paling that 
rises from the fioor to the smoke-stained ceiling, are the 
peering, bloated faces of the night’s prisoners. 




IDS* 8E V l£S* 


The recorder utters a name. The clerk down in front 
of him caLs it aloud. A door in the palings opens, and 
one of the captives comes forth and stands before the 
rail. The arresting officer mounts to the witness-stand 
and confronts him. The oath is rattled and turned out 
like dice from a box, and the accusing testimony is heard. 
It may be that counsel rises and cross-examines, if there 
are witnesses for the defence. Strange and far-fetched 
questions, from beginners at the law or from old blun¬ 
derers, provoke now laughter, and now the peremptory 
protestations of the court against the waste of time. Yet, 
in general, a few minutes suffices for the whole trial of a 
case. 

. “ You are sure she picked the handsaw up by the 
handle, are you?'* says the questioner, frowning with the 
importance of the point. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And that she coughed as she did so? ” 

“ Well, you see, she kind o' ” — 

“ Yes, or no I ” 

“ No.” 

“That's all.” He waves the prisoner down with an 
air of mighty triumph, turns to the recorder, “ trusts it is 
not necessary to,” etc., and the accused passes this way 
or that, according to the fate decreed, — discharged, sen¬ 
tenced to fine and imprisonment, or committed for trial 
before the courts of the State. 

“ Order in court I ” There is too much talking. An¬ 
other comes and stands before the rail, and goes his way. 
Another, and another; now a ragged boy, now a half- 
sobered crone, now a battered ruffian, and now a painted 
girl of the street, and at length one who starts wh£n his 
name is called, as though something had exploded. 

“John Richlingl” 


OUT or THE FRYING-PAH. 


209 


He came. 

“ Stand there ! ’* 

Some one is in the ?v^itness-stand, speaking. The 
prisoner partly hears, but does not see. He stands and 
holds the rail, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the clerk, 
who bends over his desk under the seat of justice, writing. 
The lawyers notice him. His dress has been laboriously 
genteel, but is torn and soiled. A detective, with small 
eyes set close together, and a nose like a yacht’s rudder, 
whisperingly calls the notice of one of these spectators 
who can see the prisoner’s face to the fact that, for all its 
thinness and bruises, it is not a bad one. All can see 
that the man’s hair is fine and waving where it is not 
matted with blood. 

The testifying officer had moved as if to leave the 
witness-stand, when the recorder restrained him by a 
gesture, and, leaning forward and looking down upon the 
prisoner, asked: — 

“ Have you anything to say to this? ” 

The prisoner lifted his eyes, bowed affirmatively, and 
spoke in a low, timid tone. “ May I say a few words to 
you privately?” 

“ No.” 

He dropped his eyes, fumbled with the rail, and, look¬ 
ing up suddenly, said in a stronger voice, “ I want 
somebody to go to my wife — in Prieur street. She is 
starving. This is the third day” — 

“ We’re not talking about that,” said the recorder. 
‘‘ Have you anything to say against this witness’s state 
ment?” 

The prisoner looked upon the floor and slowly shook 
his head. “I never meant to break the law. I never 
expected to stand here. It’s like an awful dream. Yester¬ 
day, at this time, I had no more idea of this—1 didn’t 


210 


DR. SEVIER. 


think I was so near it. It's like getting caught \n 
machinery.” He looked up at the recorder again. “ I m 
BO confused ” — he frowned and drew his hand slowlj 
across his brow — “I can hardly — put my words to 
gether. I was hunting for work. There is no man ii 
this city who wants to earn an honest living more than 
r do.” 

“ What’s your trade?” 

“ I have none.” 

“ I supposed not. But you profess to have some occu 
pation, I dare say. Whafs your occupation?” 

“ Accountant.” 

“Hum! you’re all accountants. How long have yoi 
been out of employment?” 

“ Six months.” 

“ Why did you go to sleep under those steps?” 

“I didn’t intend to go to sleep. I was waiting for s 
friend to come in who boards at the St. Charles.” 

A sudden laugh ran through the room. “ Silence in 
court!” cried a deputy. 

“ Who is your friend?” asked the recorder. 

The prisoner was silent. 

“ What is your friend’s name? ” 

Still the prisoner did not reply. One of the group of 
pettifoggers sitting behind him leaned forward, touched 
him on the shoulder, and murmured: “ You’d better tell 
his name. It won’t hurt him, and it may help you.” The 
prisoner looked back at the man and shook his head. 

“Did you strike this officer?” asked the recorder, 
touching the witness, who was resting on both elbows in 
the light arm-chair on the right. 

The prisoner made a low response. 

“ I don’t hear you,” said the recorder. 

“I struck him,” replied the prisoner; “I knocked him 


OUT OP THE FRYING-PAN. 


211 


down.” The court ofBcers below the dais smiled. “ I woke 
and found him spuming me with his foot, and I resented 
it. T never expected to be a law-breaker. I”— He 
pressed his temples between his hands and was silent. 
The men of the law at his back exchanged glances of 
approval. The case was, to some extent, interesting. 

“ May it please the court,” said the man who had 
before addressed the prisoner over his shoulder, stepping 
out on the right and speaking very softly and graciously, 
“ I ask that this man be discharged. His fault seems so 
much more to be accident than intention, and his suffer¬ 
ing so much more than his fault”— 

The recorder interrupted by a wave of the hand and a 
preconceived smile: “ Why, according to the evidence, 
the prisoner was noisy and troublesome in his cell all 
night.’’ 

“Osir,” exclaimed the prisoner, “I was thrown in 
with thieves and drunkards! It was unbearable in that 
hole. We were right on the damp and slimy bricks. 
The smell was dreadful. A woman in the cell opposite 
screamed the whole night. One of the men in the cell 
tried to take my coat from me, and I beat him I” 

“ It seems to me, your honor,” said the volunteer ad¬ 
vocate, “the prisoner is still more sinned against than 
sinning. This is evidently his first offence, and ” — 

“ Do you know even that? ” asked the recorder. 

“I do not believe his name can be found on any 
criminal record. I” — 

The recorder interrupted once more. He leaned tow 
aid the prisoner. 

“ Did you ever go by any other name?” 

The prisoner was dumb. 

“Isn’t John Richling the only name you have evei 
gone by?” said his new friend; but the prisoner silently 


212 


DB. SEYIXB. 


blushed to the roots of his hair and remained motion 
less. 

“ I think I shall have to send you to prison/* said the 
recorder, preparing to write. A low groan was the 
prisoner’s only response. 

“ May it please your honor,” began the lawyer, taking 
a step forward; but the recorder waved his pen impa¬ 
tiently. 

“ Why, the more is said the worse his case gets; he’s 
guilty of the offence charged, by his own confession.” 

. “ I am guilty and not guilty,” said the prisoner slowly. 
“ I never intended to be a criminal. I intended to be 
a good and useful.member of society; but I’ve somehow 
got under its wheels. I’ve missed the whole secret of 
living.” He dropped his face into his hands. “ O Mary, 
Mary! why are you my wife ? ” He beckoned to his coun¬ 
sel. “ Come here; come here.” His manner was wild 
and nervous. “ I want you — I want you to go to Prieur 
street, to my wife. You know — you know the place, 
don’t you? Prieur street. Ask for Mrs. Riley” — 

“ Richling,” said the lawyer. 

“ No, no! you ask for Mrs. Riley? Ask her — asfk her 
— oh! where are my senses gone? Ask ” — 

“May it please the court,” said the lawyer, turning 
once more to the magistrate and drawing a limp handker¬ 
chief from the skirt of his dingy alpaca, with a reviving 
confidence, “ I ask that the accused be discharged; he ia 
ividently insane.” 

The prisoner looked rapidly from counsel to magistrate, 
.nd back again, saying, in a low voice, “ Oh, no! not that I 
Oh, no! a:)t that 1 not that! ” 

The retDrder dropped his eyes upon a paper on the 
desk before him, and, beginn.ng to write, said* without 
\ooking up: — 


OUT or THE FRYING-PAN. 


213 


“ Parish Prison — to be examined for insanity.” 

A cry of remonstrance broke so sharply from the pris¬ 
oner that even the reporters in their corner checked their 
energetic streams of lead-pencil rhetoric and looked up. 

“You cannot do that!” he exclaimed. “I am not 
insane! I’m not even confused now ! It was only for a 
minute ! I’m not even confused ! ” 

An officer of the court laid his hand quickly and sternly 
apon his arm; but the recorder leaned forward and mo¬ 
tioned him off. The prisoner darted a single flash of 
anger at the officer, and then met the eye of the 
justice. 

If I am a vagrant commit me for vagrancy! I expect 
no mercy here! I expect no justice! You punish me 
first, and try me afterward, and now you can punish me 
again ; but you can’t do that! ” 

“ Order in court! Sit down in those benches ! ” cried 
the deputies. The lawyers nodded darkly or blandly, 
each to each. The one who ha^ /olunteered his counsel 
wiped his bald Gothic brow. On the recorder’s lips 
an austere satire played as he said to the panting pris¬ 
oner ; — 

“You are showing not only your sanity, but your con¬ 
tempt of court also.” 

The prisoner’s eyes shot back a fierce light as he 
retorted: — 

“ I have no object in concealing either.” 

The recorder answered with a quick, angry look; but, 
instantly restraining himself, dropped his glance upon his 
desk as before, began again to write, and said, with his 
eyes following his pen: — 

“ Parish Prison, for thirty days.” 

The officer grasped the prisoner again and pointed him 
to the door in the palings whence he had come, and 


214 


DR. SEVIER. 


whither he now retnmed, without a word or note of dis* 
tress. 

Half an hour later the dark omnibus without windows, 
that went by the facetious name of the “ Black Maria ** 
received the convicted ones from the same street door by 
which they had been brought in out of the world the night 
before. The waifs and vagabonds of the town gleefully 
formed a line across the sidewalk from the station-house 
to the van, and counted with zest the abundant number 
of passengers that were ushered into it one by one. 
Heigh ho! In they went: all ages and sorts; both 
sexes; tried and untried, drunk and sober, new faces and 
old acquaintances; a man who had been counterfeiting, 
bis wife who had been helping him, and their little girl of 
twelve, who had done nothing. Ho, ho! Bridget Fury! 
Ha, ha! Howling Lou! In they go: the passive, the 
violent, all kinds; filling the two benches against the 
sides, and then the standing room ; crowding and packing, 
until the officer can shut the door only by throwing his 
weight against it. 

“ Officer,” said one, whose volunteer counsel had per¬ 
suaded the reporters not to mention him by name in their 
thrilling account, —officer,” said this one, trying to 
pause an instant before the door of the vehicle, “ is there 
no other possible way to ” — 

“ Get in ! get in ! ” 

Two hands spread against his back did the rest; the 
door clapped to like the lid of a bursting trunk, the pad¬ 
lock rattled: away they went I 


**OH, WHEiiE iS MX LOVE?” 


213 


CHAPTEK XXVm. 

“oh, where is my love?” 

T the prison the scene is repeated in reverse, ann 



the Black Maria presently rumbles away empty. 
In that building, whose exterior Narcisse found so pictu¬ 
resque, the vagrant at length finds food. In that question 
of food, by the way, another question arose, not as to any 
degree of criminality past or present, nor as to age, or 
sex, or race, or station; but as to the having or lacking 
fifty cents. “ Four bits” a day was the open sesame to 
a department where one could have bedstead and ragged 
bedding and dirty mosquito-bar, a cell whose window 
looked down into the front street, food in variety, and a 
seat at table with the oflScers of the prison. But those 
who could not pay were conducted past all these delights, 
along one of several dark galleries, the turnkeys of which 
were themselves convicts, who, by a process of reason¬ 
ing best understood among the harvesters of perquisites, 
were assumed to be undergoing sentence. 

The vagrant stood at length before a grated iron gate 
while its bolts were thrown back and it growled on its 
hinges. What he saw within needs no minute description; 
it may be seen there still, any day: a large, fiagged court, 
surrounded on three sides by two stories of cells with 
heavy, black, square doors all a-row and mostly open; 
about a hundred men sitting, lying, or lounging about in 
scanty rags, — some gaunt and feeble, some burly and 
alert, some scarred and maimed, some sallow, some red, 


216 


DB. SEYIBB. 


some grizzled, some mere lads, some old and bowed, — 
the sentenced, the untried, men there for the first time, 
men who were oftener in than out, — burglars, smugglers, 
house-burners, highwaymen, wife-beaters, wharf-rats, 
common “ drunks,” pickpockets, shop-lifters, stealers of 
bread, garroters, murderers, — in common equality and 
fraternity. In this resting and refreshing place for vice, 
this caucus for the projection of future crime, this ghastly 
burlesque of justice and the protection of society, there 
was a man who had been convicted of a dreadful murder 
a year or two before, and sentenced to twenty-one years’ 
labor in the State penitentiary. He had got his sentence 
commuted to confinement in this prison for twenty-one 
years of idleness. The captain of the prison had made 
him “ captain of the yard.” Strength, ferocity, and a 
tSTrific record were the qualifications for this honorary 
oflSce. 

The gate opened. A howl of welcome came from those 
within, and the new batch, the vagrant among them, 
entered the yard. He passed, in his turn, to a tank of 
muddy water in this yard, washed away the soil and blood 
of the night, and so to the cell assigned him. He was lying 
face downward on its pavement, when a man with a cudgel 
ordered him to rise. The vagrant sprang to his feet and 
confronted the captain of the yard, a giant in breadth and 
stature, with no clothing but a ragged undershirt and 
pantaloons. 

“ Get a bucket and rag and scrub out this cell I ” 

He flourished his cudgel. The vagrant cast a quick 
glance at him, and answered quietly, but with burning 
face: — 

“1*11 die first.” 

A blow with the cudgel, a cry of rage, a clash togethei, 
a push, a sledge-hammer fist in the side, another on the 


’’oh, where is my lcve? 


217 


head, a faU out into the yard, and the vagrant lay sense¬ 
less on the flags. 

When he opened his eyes again, and struggled to his 
feet, a gentle grasp was on his arm. Somebody was 
steadying him. He turned his eyes. Ah I who is this? 
A short, heavy, close-shaven man, with a woollen jacket 
thrown over one shoulder and its sleeves tied together in 
a knot under the other. He speaks in a low, kind tone;— 

“ Steady, Mr. Richling I ” 

Richling supported himself by a hand on the man’s ariv,^ 
gazed in bewilderment at the gentle eyes that met his, and 
with a slow gesture of astonishment murmured, “ Risto- 
falo ! ” and dropped his head. 

The Italian had just entered the prison from another 
station-house. With his hand stUl on Richling’s shoulder, 
and Richling’s on his, he caught the eye of the captain of 
the yard, who was striding quietly up and down near by, 
and gave him a nod to indicate that he would soon adjust 
everything to that autocrat’s satisfaction. Richling, 
dazed and trembling, kept his eyes still on the ground, 
while Ristofalo moved with him slowly away from the 
squalid group that gazed after them. They went toward 
the Italian’s cell. 

“ Why are you in prison?” asked the vagrant, feebly. 

“ Oh, nothin’ much —witness in shootin’ scrape — talk 
’bout aft’ while.” 

“ O Ristofalo,” groaned Richling, as they entered, 
“ my wife I my wife I Send^ some bread to my wife! ” 

“Lie down,” said the Italian, pressing softly on his 
shoulders; but Richling as quietly resisted. 

“ She is near here, Ristofalo. You can send with the 
greatest ease I You can do anything, Ristofalo, — if you 
only choose I ” 

“ Lay down,” said the Italian again, and pressed more 


218 


DE. SEVIEE. 


heavily. The vagrant sank limply to the pavement, hit 
companion quickly untying the jacket sleeves from under 
his own arms and wadding the garment under Richling^t 
bead. 

“Do you know what Tm in here for, Ristofalo?*' 
moaned Richling. 

“ Don’t know, don’t care. Yo’ wife know you here? ” 
Richling shook his head on the jacket. The Italian asked 
her address, and Richling gave it. 

Goin’ tell her come and see you,” said the Italian. 

“ Now, you lay still little while ; I be back frectly.” He 
went out into the yard again, pushing the heavy door 
after him till it stood only slightly ajar, sauntered easily 
around till he caught sight of the captain of the yard, and 
was presently standing before him in the same immov¬ 
able way in which he had stood before Richling in Tchou- 
pitoulas street, on the day he had borrowed the dollar. 
Those who idly drew around could not hear his words, but 
the “ captain’s ” answers were intentionally audible. He 
shook his head in rejection of a proposal. “ No, nobody 
out the prisoner himself should scrub out the cell. No, 
the Italian should not do it for him. The prisoner’s 
refusal and resistance had settled that question. No, the 
knocking down had not balanced accounts at all. There 
was more scrubbing to be done. It was scrubbing day. 
Others might scrub the yard and the galleries, but hu 
should scrub out the tank. And there were other things, 
and worse, — menial services of the lowest kind. He 
should do them when the time came, and the Italian 
would have to help him too. Never mind about the laff 
or the terms of his sentence. Those counted for nothing 
there.” Such was the sense of the decrees; the words 
were such as may be guessed or left unguessed. The 
scrubbing of the cell must commence at once. Ths ^ 


”0H, WHERE 18 MT LOVE?” 219 

ragrant must make up his mind to suffer. “ Ke had 
served on jury ! ” said the man in the undershirt, with a 
final flourish of his stick. “He’s got to pay dear for 
it.” 

Whea Ristofalo returned to his cell, its inmate, after 
many upstartings from terrible dreams, that seemed to 
guard the threshold of slumber, had fallen asleep. The 
Italian touched him gently, but he roused with a wild 
start and stare. 

“ Ristofalo,” he said, and fell a-staring again. 

“ You had some sleep,” said the Italian. 

“It’s worse than being awake,” said Richling. He 
passed his hands across his face. “Has my wife been 
here ? ” 

“No. Haven’t sent yet. Must watch good chance. 
Git captain yard in good-humor first, or else do on sly. ’’ 
The cunning Italian saw that anything looking like early 
extrication would bring new fury upon Richling. He 
knew all the values of time. “ Come,” he added, “must 
scrub out cell now.” He ignored the heat that kindled 
in Richling’s eyes, and added, smiling, “ You don’t do 
it, I got to do it.” 

With a little more of the like kindly guile, and some 
wise and simple reasoning, the Italian prevailed. To¬ 
gether, without objection from the captain of the yard, 
with many unavailing protests from Richling, who would 
now do it alone, and with Ristofalo smiling like a China¬ 
man at the obscene ribaldry of the spectators in the yard, 
they scrul bed the cell. Then came the tank. They had 
to stand in it with the water up to their knees, and rub 
its sides with brickbats. Richling fell down twice in the 
water, to the uproarious delight of the yard; but hii 
companion helped him up, and they both agreed it was 
the sliminess of the tank’s bottom that was to blame. 


220 


DR. SEVIER. 


Soon we get through we goin’ to 1. y drink o’ whisky 
from jailer,” said Ristofalo ; “ he keep it for sale. Then, 
after that, kin hire somebody to go to voui house: 
captain yard think we gittin’ mo’ whisky.” 

“Hire?” said Richling. “I haven’t a cent in the 
»^orld.” 

“ I got a little — few dimes,” rejoined the other. 

“ Then why are you here? Why are you in this pan 
of the prison?” 

“ Oh, ’fraid to spend it. On’y got few dimes. Broke 
ag’in.” 

Richling stopped still with astonishment, brickbat in 
hand. The Italian met his gaze with an illuminated smile. 
“Yes,” he said, “took all I had with me to bayou La 
Fcurche. Coming back, slept with some men in boat. 
One git up in night-time and steal ever^^thing. Then was 
a big fight. Think that what fight was about—about 
dividing the money. Don’t know sure. One man git 
killed. Rest mn into the swamp and prairie. OflScer ar¬ 
rest me for witness. Couldn’t trust me to stay in the 
city.” 

“ Do you think the one who was killed was the thief ? ” 

“ Don’t know sure,” said the Italian, with the same 
sweet face, and falling to again with his brickbat,— 
*' hope so! ” 

“ Strange place to confine a witness ! ” said Richling, 
holding his hand to his bruised side and slowly straight- 
ening his back. 

“Oh, yes, good place,” replied the other, scrubbing 
away; “ git him, in short time, so he swear to anything.” 

It was far on in the afternoon before the wary Risto¬ 
falo ventured to offer all he had in his pocket to a 
hanger-on of the prison office, to go first to Richling’s 
house, and then to an acquaintance of his own, with 


OH, WHERE IS MY LOVE?"' 


221 


messages looking to the procuring of their release. The 
messenger chose to go first to Ristofalo’s friend, and 
afterward to Mrs. Riley’s. It was growing dark when he 
reached the latter place. Mary was out in the city some¬ 
where, wandering about, aimless and distracted, in search 
of Richling. The messenger left word with Mrs. Riley. 
Richling had all along hoped that that good friend, 
doubtless acquainted with the most approved methods of 
finding a missing man, would direct Mary to the police 
station at the earliest practicable hour. But time had 
shown that she had not done so. No, indeed! Mrs.^— 
Riley counted herself too benevolently shrewd for that. 

While she had made Mary’s suspense of the night less 
frightful than it might have been, by surmises that Mr. 
Richling had found some form of night- work, — watching 
some pile of freight or some 'mfinished building, — she 
had come, secretly, to a different conviction, predicated 
on her own married experiences ; and if Mr. Richling had, 
in a moment of gloom, tipped the bowl a little too high, 

AS her dear lost husband, the best man that ever walked, 
had often done, and had been* locked up at night to be\, 
let out in the morning, why, give him a chance ! Let him 
invent his own little fault-hiding romance and come home ^ ^ 
with it. Mary was frantic. She could not be kept in; 
but Mrs. Riley, by prolonged eflfort, convinced her it was 
best not to call upon Dr. Sevier until she could be sure 
some disaster had actually occurred, and sent her among 
the fruiterers and oystermen in vain search for Raphael 
Ristofalo. Thus it was that the Doctor’s morning mes¬ 
senger to the Richlings, bearing word that if any one 
were 8ick|he would call without delay, was met by Mrs. 

Riley only, and by the reassuring statement that both of 
them were out. The later messenger, from the two men 
in prison, brought back word of Mary’s absence from the ^ 


222 


DR. SEVIBB. 


house, of her physical welfare, aud Mrs. Riley’s promis4 
that Mary should visit the prison at the earliest hour 
possible. This would not be till the next morning. 

While Mrs. Riley was sending this message, Mary, f 
great distance away, was emerging from the darkening 
and silent streets of the river front and moving with timid 
haste across the broad levee toward the edge of the water 
at the steamboat landing. In this season of depleted 
streams and idle waiting, only an occasional boat lifted 
its lofty, black, double funnels against the sky here and 
there, leaving wide stretches of unoccupied wharf-front 
between. Mary hurried on, clear out to the great wharf’s 
edge, and looked forth upon the broad, softly moving har¬ 
bor. The low waters spread out and away, to and around 
the opposite point, in wide surfaces of glassy purples and 
wrinkled bronze. Beauty, that joy forever, is sometimes 
a terror. Was the end of her search somewhere under¬ 
neath that fearful glory? She clasped her hands, bent 
down with dry, staring eyes, then turned again and fled 
homeward. She swerved once toward Dr. Sevier’s quar¬ 
ters, but soon decided to see first if there were any tidings 
with Mrs. Riley, and so resumed her course. Night 
overtook her in streets where every footstep before or 
behind her made her tremble; but at length she crossed 
the threshold of Mrs. Riley’s little parlor. Mrs. Riley 
was standing in the door, and retreated a step or two 
backward as Mary entered with a look of wild inquiry. 

“ Not come? ” cried the wife. 

“ Mrs. Richlin’,” said the widow, hurriedly, “ yer hus¬ 
band’s alive and found.” 

Mary seized her frantically by the shoulders, crying 
with high-pitched voice : — 

“ Where is he ? — where is he ? ” 

“ Ye can’t see um till marning, Mrs. Richlin’.” 


’’oh, where is mt love? 


223 


“ Where is he? ” cried Mary, louder than before. 

“ Me dear,” said Mrs. Riley, “ ye kin easy git him out 
in the marning.” 

“Mrs. Riley,” said Mary, holding her with her eye, 
“ is my husband in prison? — O Lord God I O God I my 
God! ” 

Mrs. Riley wept. She clasped the moaning, sobbing 
wife to her bosom, and with streaming eyes said: — 

^ “ Mrs. Richlin’, me dear, Mrs. Richlin*, me dear, what 

wad I give to have my husband this night where you* 
husband is I ” 


i 


DB. ssyniB. 


SS4 


CHAPTER XXrX. 


RELEASE. — NAECI8SB. 


S some children were playing in the street before the 



Parish Prison next morning, they suddenly started 
and scampered toward the prison’s black entrance. A 
physician’s carriage had driven briskly up to it, ground its 
wheels against the curb-stone, and halted. If any fresh 
crumbs of horror were about to be dropped, the children 
must be there to feast on them. Dr. Sevier stepped out, 
gave Mary his hand and then his arm, and went in with 
her. A question or two in the prison ofl3ce, a reference 
to the roUs, and a turnkey led the way through a dark 
gallery lighted with dimly burning gas. The stench was 
suffocating. They stopped at the inner gate. 

“ Why didn’t you bring him to us? ” asked the Doctor, 
scowling resentfully at the facetious drawings and legends 
on the walls, where the dampness glistened in the sickly 
«ght. 

The keeper made a low reply as he shot the bolts. 

“ What ?” quickly asked Mary. 

“ He’s not well,” said Dr. Sevier. 

The gate swung open. They stepped into the yard 
and across it. The prisoners paused in a game of ball. 
Others, who were playing cards, merely glanced up and 
went on. The jailer pointed with his bunch of keys to a 
cell before him. Mary glided away from the Doctor and 
darted in. There was a cry and a wail. 

The Doctor followed quickly. Ristofalo passed out ai 


RELEASE. —NARC5I88E. 


225 


he entered. Richling lay on a rough gray blanket spread 
on the pavement with the Italian’s jacket under his head. 
Mary had thrown herself down beside him upon her knees, 
and their arms were around each other’s neck. 

‘‘ Let me see, Mrs. Richling,” said the physician, 
touching her on the shoulder. She drew back. Richling 
lifted a hand in welcome. The Doctor pressed it. 

“ ISlrs. Richling,” he said, as they faced each other, he 
on one knee, she on both. He gave her a few laconic 
directions for the sick man’s better comfort. “You 
must stay here, madam,” he said at length; “ this man 
Ristofalo will be ample protection for you; and I will go 
at once and get your husband’s discharge.” He went 
out. 

In the office he asked for a seat at a desk. As he fin 
ished using it he turned to the keeper and asked, with 
severe face: — 

“ What do you do with sick prisoners here, anyway ? ” 

The keeper smiled. 

“ Why, if they gits right sick, the hospital wagon comes 
and takes ’em to the Charity Hospital.” 

“Umhum!” replied the Doctor, unpleasantly, — “in 
the same wagon they use for a case of scarlet fever or 
small-pox, eh?” 

The keeper, with a little resentment in his laugh, stated 
that he would be eternally lost if he knew. 

“ I know,” remarked the Doctor. “ But when a man 
is only a little sick, — according to your judgment, — like 
that one in there now, he is treated here, eh?” 

The keeper swelled with a little official pride. His tone 
was boastful. 

“ We has a complete dispenisary in the prison,” he said. 

“ Yes? Who’s your druggist? ” Dr. Sevier was in his 
worst inquisitorial mood. 


226 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ One of the prisoners,” said the keeper. 

The Doctor looked at him steadily. The man, in the 
blackness of his ignorance, was visibly proud of this bit 
of economy and convenience. 

“ How long has he held this position?” asked the phy¬ 
sician. 

“Oh, a right smart while. He was sentenced for 
nurder, but he’s waiting for a new trial.” 

“ And he has full charge of all the drugs?” asked the 
Doctor, with a cheerful smile. 

“ Yes, sir.” The keeper was flattered. 

“ Poisons and all, I suppose, eh? ” pursued the Doctor. 

“Everything.” 

The Doctor looked steadily and silently upon the officer, 
and tore and folded and tore again into small bits the 
prescription he had written. A moment later the door of 
his carriage shut with a smart clap and its wheels rattled 
away. There was a general laugh in the office, heavily 
spiced with maledictions. 

“ I say. Cap’, what d’you reckon he’d ’a’ said if he’d 
’a’ seen the women’s department?” 

In those days recorders had the power to release pris¬ 
oners sentenced by them when in their judgment new 
information justified such action. Yet Dr. Sevier had a 
hard day’s work to procure Richling’s liberty. The sun 
was declining once more when a hack drove up to Mrs. 
Riley’s door with John and Mary in it, and Mrs. Riley 
was restrained from laughing and crying only by.the 
presence Df the great Dr. Sevier and a romantic Italian 
stranger oy the captivating name of Ristofalo. Richling, 
with repeated avowals of his ability to walk alone, was 
helped into the house between these two illustrious vis¬ 
itors, Mary hurrying in ahead, and Mrs. Riley shutting 


RELEASE. — NARCIS8E. 


227 


the street door with some resentment of manner toward 
the staring children who gathered without. Was there 
anything surprising in the fact that eminent persons should 
call at her house? ” 

When there was time for greetings she gave her hand 
to Dr. Sevier and asked him how he found himself. To 
Ristofalo she bowed majestically. She noticed that he 
was handsome and muscular. 

At different hours the next day the same two visitors 
called. Also the second day after. And the third. And 
frequently afterward. 

Ristofalo regained his financial feet almost, as one 
might say, at a single hand-spring. He amused Mary 
and John and JVIrs. Riley almost beyond limit with his 
simple story of how he did it. 

“Ye’d better hurry and be getting up out o’ that sick 
bed, Mr. Ritchlin’,” said the widow, in Ristofalo’s absence, 
“ or that I-talian rascal ’ll be making himself entirely too 
agree’ble to yer lady here. Ha ! ha ! It’s she that he’s 
a-comin’ here to see.” 

Mrs. Riley laughed again, and pointed at Mary and 
tossed her head, not knowing that Mary went through it 
all over again as soon as Mrs. Riley was out of the room, 
to the immense delight of John. 

“And now, madam,” said Dr Sevier to Mary, by and 
by, “let it be understood once more that even indepen- 
ience may be carried to a vicious extreme, and that ” — 
he turned to Richling, by whose bed he stood— “ you and 
your wife will not do it again. You’ve hiad a narrow 
escape. Is it understood ? ” 

“We’ll try to be moderate,” repded the invalid, play 
fully. 

“ I don’t believe you,” said the Doctor. 


228 


DS. SEVIER. 


And his scepticism was wise. He continued to watcfc 
them, and at length enjoyed the sight of John up and out 
again with color in his cheeks and the old courage — nay, 
a new and a better courage — in his eyes. 

Said the Doctor on his last visit, “Take good care jf 
your husb^Qd, my child.” He held the little wife’s hand a 
momen*, and gazed out of ISIrs. Riley’s front door upon 
the western sky. Then he transferred his gaze to John, 
who stood, with his knee in a chair, just behind her. Ho 
looked at the convalescent with solemn steadfastness. 
Tlie husband smiled broadly. 

“ I know what you mean. I’ll try to deserve her.” 

The Doctor looked again into the west. 

“ Good-by.” 

Mary tried playfully to retort, but John restrained her, 
and when she contrived to utter something absurdly 
complimentary of her husband he was her only 
hearer. 

They went back into the house, talking of other 
matters. Something turned the conversation upon Mrs. 
Riley, and from that subject it seemed to pass naturally 
to Ristofalo. Mary, laughing and talking softly as they 
entered their room, called to John’s recollection the Ital¬ 
ian’s account of how he had once bought a tarpaulin hat 
and a cottonade shirt of the pattern called a “ jumper,” 
and had worked as a deck-hand in loading and unloading 
steamboats. It was so amusingly sensible to put on the 
proper badge for the kind of work sought. Richling 
mused. Many a dollar he might have earned the past 
summer, had he been as ingeniously wise, he thought. 

“Ristofalo is coming here this evening,” said he, 
taking a seat in the alley window. 

Mary looked at him with sidelong merriment. The 
Italian was eoming to see Mrs. Rilev. 


RELEASE. — NAROISSE. 


229 


“ Why, John,” whispered Mary, standing beside him, 

she’s nearly ten years older than he is I ” 

But John quoted the old saying about a man’s age being 
what he feels, and a woman’s what she looks. 

“Why, — but—dear, it is scarcely a fortnight since 
I he declared nothing could ever induce ” — 

“ Let her alone,” said John, indulgently. “ Hasn’t she 
said half-a-dozen times that it isn’t good for woman to be 
alone ? A widow’s a woman — and you never disputed 
it.” 

“ O John,” laughed Mary, “ for shame ! You know I 
didn’t mean that. You know I never could mean that.” 

And when John would have maintained his ground she 
besought him not to jest in that direction, with eyes so 
ready for tears that he desisted. 

“1 only meant to be generous to Mrs. Riley,” he said. 

“I know it,” said Mary, caressingly; “ you’re always 
on the generous side of everything.” 

She rested her hand fondly on his arm, and he took it 
into his own. 

One evening the pair were out for that sunset walk 
which their young blood so relished, and which often led 
them, as it did this time, across the wide, open commons 
behind the town, where the unsettled streets were turf- 
grown, and toppling wooden lamp-posts threatened to fall 
into the wide, cattle-trodden ditches. 

“ Fall is coming,” said Mary. 

“Let it cornel” exclaimed John; ‘it’s hung back 
long enough.” 

He looked about with pleasure. On every hand the 
advancing season was giving promise of heightened ac¬ 
tivity. The dark, plumy foliage of the china treep was 
getting a golden edge. The burnished green of the great 
magnolias was spotted brilliantly with hundreds of 


230 


DR. SEVIER. 


bursting cones, red with their pendent seeds. Here and 
there, as the sauntering pair came again into the region ol 
brick sidewalks, a falling cone would now and then 
scatter ite polished coral over the pavement, to be gath¬ 
ered by little girls for necklaces, or bruised under foot, 
staining the walk with its fragrant oil. The ligustruma 
bent lov under the dragging weight of their small clus¬ 
tered beiries. The oranges were turning. In the wet, 
choked ditches along the interruptions of pavement, 
where John followed Mary on narrow plank footways, 
bloomed thousands of little unrenowned asteroid flowers, 
blue and yello^ and the small, pink spikes of the water 
pepper. It wasn’t the fashionable habit in those days, 
but Mary had John gather big bunches of this pretty 
floral mob, and filled her room with them — not Mrs. 
Riley’s parlor — whoop, no! Weeds? Not if Mrs. 
Riley knew herself. 

So ran time apace. The morning skies were gray 
monotones, and the evening gorgeous reds. The birds 
had finished their summer singing. Sometimes the alert 
chirp of the cardinal suddenly smote the ear from some 
neighboring tree ; but he would pass, a flash of crimson, 
from one garden to the next, and with another chirp or 
two be gone for days. The nervy, unmusical waking cry 
of the mocking-bird was often the first daybreak sound. 
At times a myriad downy seed floated everywhere, now 
softly upward, now gently downward, and the mellow 
rays of sunset turned it into a warm, golden snow-fall. 
By night a soft glow from distant burning prairies showed 
the hunters were afield; the call of unseen wild fowl 
^as heard overhead, and — finer to the waiting poor 
man’s ear than all other sounds — came at regular iLier- 
vals, now from this quarter and now from that, the 


BELEASE. —NAROI88B. 


231 


heavy, rushing blast of the cotton compiess, telling that 
the flood tide of commerce was setting in. 

Narcisse surprised the Richlings one evening with a 
call. They tried very hard to be reserved, but they were 
too young for that task to be easy. The Creole had evi¬ 
dently come with his mind made up to take unresentfully 
and override all the unfriendliness they might choose to 
show. His conversation never ceased, but flitted from 
subject to subject with the swift waywardness of a hum¬ 
ming-bird. It was remarked by Mary, leaning back in 
one end of IVIrs. Riley’s little sofa, that “ summer dresses 
were disappearing, but that the girls looked just as sweet 
in their darker colors as they had appeared in mid« 
summer white. Had Narcisse noticed? Probably he 
didn’t care for ” — 

“ Ho I I notiz them an* they notiz me! An’ thass one 
thing I ’ave notiz about young ladies; they ah jua like those 
bird’; in summeh lookin’ cool, in winteh wauii. I ’ave 
notiz that. An’ I’ve notiz anotheh thing which make 
them juz like those bird’. They halways know if a man 
is lookin’, an’ they halways make like they don’t see ’im I 
I would like to ’ite an i’ony about that — a lill i’ony — in 
the he’oic measuh. You like that he’oic measuh, Mizzez 
Witchlin’?” 

As he rose to go he rolled a cigarette, and folded the 
end in with the long nail of his little finger. 

“ Mizzez Witchlin’, if you will allow me to light my 
ciga’ette fum yo’ lamp— I can’t use my sun-glass a. 
night, because the sun is nod theh. But, the sun shining, 
I use it. I ’ave adop’ that method since lately.” 

“You borrow the sun’s rays,” said Mary, with wicked 
sweetness. 

“Yes; ’tis cheapeh than matches in the longue ’un ** 


232 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ T have discovered that, I suppose," remarked 
John. 

“Me? The sun-glass? No. I believe Ahchimidea 
invend that, in fact. An’ yet, out of ten thousan* who 
use the sun-glass only a few can account ’ow tis done. 
’Ow did you think that that’s my invention, Mistoo Itch- 
lin? Did you know that I am something of a chimist? 
I can tu’n litmus papeh ’ed by juz dipping it in SOjHO. 
Yesseh.’’ 

“Yes,” said Richling, “that’s one thing that I have 
noticed, that you’re very fertile in devices.” 

“Yes,” echoed Mary, “ I noticed that, the first time 
you ever came to see us. I only wish Mr. Richling was 
half as much so.” 

She beamed upon her husband. Narcisse laughed with 
pure pleasure. 

“ Well, I am compel’ to say you ah co’ect. I am con- 
linually makin’ some discove’ies. ‘ Necessity’s the 
motheh of inventions.’ Now thass anotheh thing I ’ave 
notiz — about that month of Octobeh : it always come 
befo’ you think it’s cornin’. I ’ave notiz that about eve’y 
month. Now, to-day we ah the twennieth Octobeh I Is it 
not so? ” He lighted his cigarette. “ Yew ah ccapd’ to 
oo’obo’ate me ” 


LIGHTINO SmP. 


233 


CHAPTER XXX. 


LIGHTINO SHIP. 



ES, the tide was coming in. The Richlings^ ba:‘k 


J- was still on the sands, but every now and then a 
wave of promise glided under her. She might float, now, 
any day. Meantime, as has no doubt been guessed, she 
was held on an even keel by loans from the Doctor. 

“Why you don’t advertise in papers?” asked Ris- 
tofalo. 

“ Advertise? Oh, I didn’t think it would be of any use. 
I advertised a whole week, last summer.” 

“You put advertisement in wrong time and keep it out 
wrong time,” said the Italian. 

“ I have a place in prospect, now, without advertising,” 
said Richling, with an elated look. 

It was just here that a new mistake of Richling’s 
emerged. He had come into contact with two or three 
men of that wretched sort that indulge the strange vanity 
of keeping others waiting upon them by promises of 
employment. He believed them, liked them heartily 
because they said nothing about references, and grate¬ 
fully distended himself with their husks, until Ristofalo 
opened his eyes by saying, when one of these men had 
disappointed Richling the third time : — 

“ Business man don’t promise but once.” 

“You lookin’ for book-keeper’s place?” asked the 
Italian at another time. “ Why don’t dress like a book¬ 
keeper?” 


DK. 8EVIEK. 


Sd4 


“On borrowed money?” asked Bichling, evidently look 
Ing upon that question as a poser. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, no,” said Richling, with a smile of superiority; 
but the other one smiled too, and shook his head. 

“ Borrow mo’, if you don’t.” 

Richling’s heart flinched at the word. He had though 
he was giving his true reason; but he was not. A foolish 
notion had floated, like a grain of dust, into the over 
delicate wheels of his thought,— that men would employ 
him the more readily if he looked needy. His hat was 
unbrushed, his shoes unpolished; he had let his beard 
come out, thin and untrimmed; his necktie was faded. 
He looked battered. When the Italian’s gentle warning 
showed him this additional mistake on top of all his 
others he was dismayed at himself; and when he sat 
down in his room and counted the cost of an accountant’s 
uniform, so to speak, the remains of Dr. Sevier’s last loan 
to him was too small for it. Thereupon he committed 
one error more,— but it was the last. He sunk his 
standard, and began again to look for service among 
industries that could offer employment only to manual 
labor. He crossed the river and stirred about among: the 
dry-docks and ship-carpenters’ yards of the suburb 
Algiers. But he could neither hew spars, nor paint, nor 
splice ropes. He watched a man half a day calking a 
boat; then he offered himself for the same work, did it 
fairly, and earned half a day’s wages. But then the boul 
was done, and there was no other calking at the moment 
along the whole harbor front, except some that was being 
done on % ship by her own sailors. 

“ John,” said Mary, dropping into her lap the sewing 
that hardly paid for her candle, “ isn’t it hard to realin 


LIGHTTNQ SHIP 


235 


that it isn’t twelve months since yoar hardships com¬ 
menced? They canH last much longer, darling.” 

“I know that,” said John. “And I know Til find a 
place presently, and then we’ll wake up to the fact that 
this was actually less than a year of trouble in a lifetime 
of love.” 

“ Yes,’' rejoined Mary, “ I know your patience will be 
rewarded.” 

“ But what I want is work now, Mary. The bread of 
idleness is getting too bitter. But never mind; I’m going 
to work to-morrow; — never mind where. It’s all right. 
You’ll see.” 

She smiled, and looked into his eyes again with a con¬ 
fession of unreserved trust. The next day he reached 
the — what shall we say ? — big end of his last mistake. 
What it was came out a few mornings after, when he 
called at Number 5 Carondelet street. 

“ The Doctah is not in pwesently,’ said Narcisse. “ He 
ve’y hawdly comes in so soon as that. He’s living home 
again, once mo’, now. He’s ve’y un’estless. I tole ’im 
yestiddy, ‘ Doctah, I know juz ’ow you feel, seh ; ’tis the 
same way with myseff. You ought to git ma’ied! ’ ” 

“ Did he say he would? ” asked Richling, 

“Well, you know, Mistoo Itchlin, so the powub says, 
‘Silent give consense.’ He juz look at me — newah 
said a word — ha! he couldn’ I You not lookin’ ve’y 
well, Mistoo Itchlin. I suppose ’tis that waum weatheh” 

“ I suppose it is; at least, partly,” said Richling, and 
added nothing more, but looked along and across the 
ceiling, and down at a skeleton in a corner, that was 
offering to shake hands with him. He was at a loss how 
to talk to Narcisse. Both Mary and he had grown a 
little ashamed of their covert sarcasms, and yet to leave 


236 


DR. SEVIER. 


them out was bread without yeast, meat without salt, ai 
far as their own powers of speech were concerned. 

“ I thought, the other day,” he began again, with an 
effort, “ when it blew up cool, that the warm weather was 
over.” 

“ It seem to be finishin* ad the end, I think,” responded 
the Creole. “I think, like you, that we ^ave *ad too 
waum weatheh. Me, I like that weatheh to be cole, me. 
I halways weigh the mose in cole weatheh. I gain flesh, 
in fact. But so soon ’tis summeh somethin’ become of 
it. I dunno if ’tis the fault of my close, but I reduct in 
summeh. Speakin’ of close, Mistoo Itchlin, — egscuse 
me if ’tis a fair question, — w’at was yo’ objec’ in buyin’ 
that tawpaulin hat an’ jacket lass week ad that sto’ on 
the levee? You din know I saw you, but I juz ’appen to 
see you, in fact.” (The color rose in Richling’s face, and 
Narcisse pressed on without allowing an answer.) “Well, 
thass none o’ my biziness, of co’se, but I thimc you 
lookin’ ve’y bad, Mistoo Itchlin”— He stofjj[)ed very 
short and stepped with dignifled alacrity to his desk, for 
Dr. Sevier’s step was on the stair. 

The Doctor shook hands with Richling and sank into 
the chair at his desk. “Anything turned up yet. Rich- 
ling?” 

“ Doctor,” began Richling, drawing his chair near and 
speaking low. 

“ Good-mawnin’, Doctah,” said Narcisse, showing him 
self with a graceful flourish. 

The Doctor nodded, then turned again to Richling. 
“ You were saying ” — 

“ I ’ope you well, seh,” insisted the Creole, and as the 
Doctor glanced toward him impatiently, repeated the sen¬ 
timent, “ ’Ope you well, seh.” 

The Doctor said he was, and turned once more to 


LIGHTING SHIP. 


237 


Richling. Narcisse bowed away backward and went to 
his desk, filled to the eyes with fierce satisfaction. He 
had made himself felt. Richling drew his chair nearer 
and spoke low ; — 

“ If I don’t get work within a day or two I shall have 
to come to you for money.” 

“ That’s all right, Richling.” The Doctor spoke aloud ; 
Richling answered low. 

“ Oh, no. Doctor, it’s all wrong I Indeed, I can’t do it 
any more unless you will let me earn the money.” 

“My dear sir, I would most gladly do it; but I have 
nothing that you can do.” 

“ Yes, you have. Doctor.” 

“What is it?” 

“Why, it’s this; you have a slave boy driving yont 
carriage.” 

“WeU?” 

“ Give him some other work, and let me do that.” 

Dr. Sevier started in his seat. “ Richling, I can’t do 
that. I should ruin you. If you drive my carriage ” — 

“ Just for a time. Doctor, till I find something else.” 

“ No ! no! If you drive my carriage in New Orleans 
you’ll never do anything else.” 

“ WTiy, Doctor, there are men standing in the front 
ranks to-day, who ” — 

“ Yes, yes,” replied the Doctor, impatiently, “ I know, 
— who began with menial labor; but — I can’t explain 
it to you, Richling, but yOu’re not of the same sort; that’s 
all. I say it without praise or blame; you must have 
work adapted to your abilities.” 

“ My abilities I ” softly echoed Richling. Tears sprang 
to his eyes. He held out his open palms, — “ Doctor, look 
there.” They were lacerated. He started to rise, bjt 
the Doctor prevented him. 


238 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ Let me go,” said Richling, pleadingly, and with 
averted face. “Let me go. Tm sorry I showed them. 
It was mean and foolish and weak. Let me go.” 

Bu‘. Dr. Sevier kept a hand on him, and he did not 
resist. The Doctor took one of the hands and examined 
it. “ Why, Richling, you’ve been handling freight I ” 

“ There was nothing else.” 

“ Oh, bah 1 ” 

“ Let me go,” whispered Richling. But the Doctor 
held him. 

“You didn’t do this on the steam-boat landing, did 
you, Richling?” 

The young man nodded. The Doctor dropped the hand 
and looked upon its owner with set lips and steady severity. 
WTien he spoke he said : — 

“Among the negro and green Irish deck-hands, and 
under the oaths and blows of steam-boat mates ! Why, 
Richling! ” He turned half away in his rotary chair with 
an air of patience worn out. 

“ You thought I had more sense,” said Richling. 

The Doctor put his elbows upon his desk and slowly 
drew his face upward through his hands. “ Mr. Richling, 
what is the matter with you ? ” They gazed at each other 
a long moment, and then Dr. Sevier continued: “Your 
trouble isn’t want of sense. I know that very well, Rich¬ 
ling.” His voice was low and became kind. “ But you 
don’t get the use of the sense you have. It isn’t available.” 
He bent forward : “ Some men, Richling, carry their folly 
on the surface and their good sense at the bottom,” — he 
jerked his thumb backward toward the distant Narcisse, 
and added, with a stealthy frown,— “ like that little fool 
in yonder. He’s got plenty of sense, but he doesn’t load 
any of it on deck. Some men carry their sense on top and 
their folly down below ” — 


LiQiiimQ Bmp. 


239 


Richling smiled broadly through his dejecticn, and 
touched his own chest. “ Like this big fool here,’’ he 
said. 

“ Exactly,” said Dr. Sevier. “ Now youVe developed 
a defect of the memory. Your few merchantable qualities 
have been so long out of the market, and you^ve suffered 
such humiliation under the pressure of adversity, that 
youVe — you’ve done a very bad thing.” 

“ Say a dozen,” responded Richling, with bitter humor. 
But the Doctor swung his head in resentment of the 
levity. 

“One’s enough. You’ve allowed yourself to forget 
your true value.” 

“ I’m worth whatever I’ll bring.” 

The Doctor tossed his head in impatient disdain. 

‘ Pshaw! You’ll never bring what you’re worth any 
more than some men are worth what they bring. You 
don’t know how. You never will know.” 

“Well, Doctor, I do know that I’m worth more than I 
ever was before. I’ve learned a thousand things in the 
last twelvemonth. If I can only get a chance to prove 
it I ” Richling turned red and struck his knee with his 
hst. 

“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Sevier; “that’s your sense, on 
top. And then you go — in a fit of the merest impatience, 
as I do suspect — and offer yourself as a deck-hand and 
as a carriage-driver. That’s your folly, at the bottom. 
What ought to be done to such a man? ” He gave a low, 
harsh laugh. Richling dropped his eyes. A silenc« 
followed. 

“You say all you want is a chance,” resumed the 
Doctor. 

“ Yes,” quickly answered Richling, looking up. 

“ I’m going to give it to you.” They looked into each 


240 


DR. SEVIER. 


other’s eyes. The Doctor nodded. “ Yes, sir.’* He 
nodded again. 

“Where did you come from, Richling, — when you 
came to New Orleans,—you and your wife? Mil 
waukee ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do your relatives know of your present conditicn^ ” 

‘No.” 

“ Is your wife’s mother comfortably situated? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you what you must do.” 

“The only thing I can’t do,” said Richling. 

“Yes, you can. You must. You must send Mrs- 
Richling back to her mother.” 

Richling shook his head. 

“ Well,” said the Doctor, warmly, “ I say you must. I 
will lend you the passage-money.” 

Richling’s eye kindled an instant at the Doctor’s com¬ 
pulsory tone, but he said, gently: — 

“ Why, Doctor, Mary will never consent to leave me.” 

“Of course she will not. But you must make her do 
it! That’s what you must do. And when that’s done 
then you must start out and go systematically from door 
to door, — of business houses, I mean,—offering yourself 
for work befitting your station — ahem ! —station, I say 
--and qualifications. I will lend you money to live on 
until you find permanent employment. Now, now, don’t 
gst alarmed 1 I’m not going to help you any more than 
1 absolutely must! ’’ 

“ But, Doctor, how can you expect” — But the Doctor 
interrupted. 

“Come, now, none of that! You and your wife are 
brave ; I must say that for you. She has the courage of 
a gladiator. You 3an do this if you will.” 


LIGHTING SHIP. 


241 


“ Doctor,” said Richling, “ you are the best of friends; 
but, you kno\f, the fact is, Mary ani I — well, we’re still 
lovers.” 

“ Oh! ” The Doctor turned away his head with fresh 
impatience. Richling bit his lip, but went on: — 

“We can bear anything on earth together; but we 
have sworn to stay together through better and worse ” — 

“Oh, pf-f-f-fl” said the doctor, closing his eyes and 
swinging his head away again. 

“ —And we’re going to do it,” concluded Richling. 

“ But you can’t do it I ” cried the Doctor, so loudly that 
Narcisse stood up on the rungs of his stool and peered. 

“We can’t separate.” 

Dr. Sevier smote the desk and sprang to his feet: - 

“ Sir, you’ve got to do it! If you continue in this 
way, you’ll die. You’ll die, Mr. Richling — both of you 1 
You’ll die! Are you going to let Mary die just because 
she’s brave enough to do it?” He sat down again and 
busied himself, nervously placing pens on the pen-rack, 
the stopper in the inkstand, and the like. 

Many thoughts ran through Richling’s mind in the 
ensuing silence. His eyes were on the floor. Visions o^ 
parting; of the great emptiness that would be left be¬ 
hind ; the pangs and yearnings that must follow, — 
crowded one upon another. One torturing realization 
kept ever in the front,—that the Doctor had a well-earned 
right to advise, and that, if his advice was to be rejected, 
one must show good and sufficient cause for rejecting it, 
both in present resources and in expectations. The tru Ji 
leaped upon him and bore him down as it never had done 
before, — the truth which he had heard this very Dr. 
Sevier proclaim, — that debt is bondage. For a moment 
he rebelled against it; but shame soon displaced mutir v, 


242 


DR. SEVIER. 


and he accepted this part, also, of hifi lot. At length he 
rose. 

“ Well?’" said Dr. Sevier. 

“ May I ask Mary ? ” 

“You will do what you please, Mr. Richling.” And 
then, in a kinder voice, the Doctor added, “Yes; SLsk 
her.” 

They .moved together to the office door. The Doctor 
opened it, and they said good-by, Richling trying to 
drop a word of gratitude, and the Doctor hurriedly ignor¬ 
ing it. 

The next half hour or more was spent by the physician 
in receiving, hearing, and dismissing patients and their 
messengers. By and by no others came. The only 
audible sound was that of the Doctor’s paper-knife as it 
parted the leaves of a pamphlet. He was thinking over 
the late interview with Richling, and knew that, if this 
silence were not soon interrupted from without, he would 
have to encounter his book-keeper, who had not spoken 
since Richling had left. Presently the issue came. 

“ Dr. Seveeah,” — Narcisse came forward, hat in hand, 
— “I dunno ’ow ’tis, but Mistoo Itchlin always wemine 
me of that powub, ‘ UUy to bed, ully to ’ise, make a 
pusson to be ’ealthy an’ wealthy an’ wise.’” 

“ I don’t know how it is, either,” grumbled the Doctor. 

‘' I believe thass not the powub I was thinking. I am 
acquainting myseff with those powubs; but I’m some¬ 
what gween in that light, in fact. Well, Doctah, I’m 
goin’ ad the — shoemakeh. I burs’ my shoe vistiddy. I 
was juz” — 

“ Very well, go.” 

“ Yesseh; and from the shoemakeh Pll go ” — 

The Doctor glanced darkly over the top of the pamphlet. 

“ —Ad the bank; yesseh,” said Narcisse, and went. 


AT LAST. 


243 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

AT LAST. 

M ary, cooking supper, uttered a soft exclamation 
of pleasure and relief as she heard John's step 
under the alley window and then at the door. She turned, 
with an iron spoon in one hand and a candlestick in the 
other, from the little old stove with two pot-holes, where 
she had been stirring some mess in a tin pan. 

“ Why, you're "— she reached for a kiss —“ real late ! ” 
“ I could not come any sooner." He dropped into a 
chair at the table. 

“Busy?" 

“ No; no work to-day." 

Mary lifted the pan from the stove, whisked it to the 
table, and blew her fingers. 

“ Same subject continued," she said laughingly, point¬ 
ing with her spoon to the warmed-over food. 

Richling smiled and nodded, and then flattened his 
elbows out on the table and hid his face in them. 

This was tlie first time he had ever lingered away from 
his wife when he need not have done so. It was the 
Doctor's proposition that had kept him back. All Jay 
long it had filled his thoughts. He felt its wisdom. Its 
sheer practical value had pierced remorselessly into the 
deepest convictions of his mind. But his heart could not 
receive it. 

‘ Well," said Mary, brightly, as she sat doiira at the 


244 


oft. SEVIER. 


table,, maybe you’ll have better luck to-moiTOw. Don’t 
you think you may ? ” 

‘ I don’t know,” said John, straightening up and toss¬ 
ing back his hair. He pushed a plate up to the pan, 
supplied ind passed it. Then he helped himself and feU 
to eating 

‘‘Have you seen Dr. Sevier to-day?” asked Mary, 
cautiously, seeing her husband pause and fall into dis¬ 
traction. 

He pushed his plate away and rose. She met him in 
the middle of the room. He extended both hands, took 
hers, and gazed upon her. How could he tell? Would 
she cry and lament, and spurn the proposition, and fall 
upon him with a hundred kisses? Ah, if she would! 
But he saw that Doctor Sevier, at least, was confident she 
would not; that she would have, instead, what the wife so 
often has in such cases, the strongest love, it may be, but 
also the strongest wisdom for that particular sort of issue. 
Which would she do? Would she go, or would she not? 

He tried to withdraw his hands, but she looked be¬ 
seechingly into his eyes and knit her fingers into his. 
The question stuck upon his lips and would not be uttered. 
And why should it be? Was it not cowardice to leave 
the decision to her ? Should not he decide ? Oh ! if she 
would only rebel! But would she ? Would not her ut¬ 
most be to give good reasons in her gentle, inquiring way 
why he should not require her to leave him ? And were 
there any such ? No! no I He had racked his brain to 
8nd so much as one, all day long. 

“John,” said Mary, “Dr. Sevier’s been talking to 
you 

“ Yes.” 

“And he wants you to send me back home for a 
while ? ” 


AT LAST. 


245 


“ How do you know?” asked John, with a start. 

“I can read it in your face.” She loosed one'hand 
and laid it upon his brow. 

“ What— what do you think about it, Mary ? ” 

Mary, looking into his eyes with the face of one who 
pleads for mercy, whispered, “He’s right,” then buried 
her face in his bosom and wept like a babe. 

“I felt it six months ago,” she said later, sitting on 
her husband’s knee and holding his folded hands tightly 
in hers. 

‘ ‘ Why didn’t you say so ? ” asked John. 

“ I was too selfish,” was her reply. 

WJien, on the second day afterward, they entered the 
Doctor’s office Richling was bright with that new hope 
which always rises up beside a new experiment, and Mary 
looked well and happy. The Doctor wrote them a letter 
of introduction to the steam-boat agent. 

“ You’re taking a very sensible course,” he said, 
smoothing the blotting-paper heavily over the letter. 
“ Of course, you think it’s hard. It is hard. But dis¬ 
tance needn’t separate you.” 

“ It can’t,” said Richling. 

“ Time,” continued the Doctor,— “ maybe a few months, 
— will bring you together again, prepared for a long life 
of secure union ; and then, when you look back upon this, 
you’ll be proud of your courage and good sense. And 
you’ll be ” — He enclosed the note, directed the envelope, 
and, pausing with it still in his hand, turned toward the 
pair. They rose up. His rare, sick-room smile hovered 
about his mouth, and he said: — 

“ You’ll be all the happier— all three of you.” 

The husband smiled. Mary colored down to the throat 
and looked up on the wall, where Fiarvey was explaining 


246 


DR. SEVIER. 


to his king the circulation of the blood. There was quit* 
a pause, neither side caring to utter the first adieu. 

“ If a physician could call any hour his own,” presently 
said the Doctor, “ I should say I would come down to the 
boat and see you off. But I might fail in that. Good- 
by I” 

“ Good-by, Doctor 1 ” — a little tremor in the voice,— 
‘‘ take care of John.” 

The tall man looked down into the upturned blue eyes. 

“ Good-by ! ” He stooped toward her forehead, but 
she lifted her lips and he kissed them. So they parted. 

The farewell with Mrs. Riley was mainly characterized 
Dy a generous and sincere exchange of compliments and 
promises of remembrance. Some tears rose up; a few 
ran over. 

At the steam-boat wharf there were only the pair them¬ 
selves to cling one moment to each other and then wave 
that mute farewell that looks through watery ej^es and 
sticks in the choking throat. Who ever knows what 
good-by means? 

“ Doctor,” said Richling, when he came to accept those 
terms in the Doctor's proposition which applied more ex¬ 
clusively to himself, — “no. Doctor, not that way, 
please.” He put aside the money proffered him. “ This 
is what I want to do: I will come to your house every 
morning and get enough to eat to sustain me through the 
day, and will continue to do so till I find work.” 

“ Very well,” said the Doctor. 

The arrangement went into effect. They never met at 
dinner; but almost every morning the Doctor, going into 
the breakfast-room, met Richling just risen from hit 
earlier and hastier meal. 


AT LAST. 


24 ? 


“ Well ? Anything yet ? ** 

“ Nothing yet.” 

And, unless there was some word from Ma * 7 , nothing 
more would be said. So went the month of November. 

But at length, one day toward the close of the Doctor’s 
office hours, he noticed the sound of an agile foot spring¬ 
ing up his stairs three steps at a stride, and Richling 
entered, panting and radiant. 

“ Doctor, at last I At last I ” 

“ At last, what?” 

“ I’ve found employment! I have, indeed! One line 
from you, and the place is mine ! A good place, Doctor, 
and one that I can fill. The very thing for me ! Adapted 
to my abilities! ” He laughed so that he coughed, was 
still, and laughed again. “Just a line, if you please, 
Doctor.'* 


246 


DR. &EV1E&. 


CHAFIER XXXn. 

A Bisma STAB. 

I T had been many a day since Dr. Seviei had felt such 
pleasure as thrilled him when Richling, half beside 
himself with delight, ran in upon him with the news that 
he had found employment. Narcisse, too, was glad. He 
slipped down from his stool and came near enough to 
'contribute his congratulatory smiles, though he did not 
v^enture to speak. Richling nodded him a happy how- 
d’ye-do, and tlie Creole replied by a wave of the hand. 

In the Doctor’s manner, on the other hand, there was a 
decided lack of response that made Richling check his 
spirits and resume more slowly,— 

“ Do you know a man named Reisen? ” 

“ No,” said the Doctor. 

“ Why, he says he knows you.” 

“ That may be.” 

“ He says you treated his wife one night when she was 
very ill” — 

“ What name? ” 

“ Reisen.” 

The Doctor reflected a moment. 

“ I believe I recollect him. Is he away up on Benjamin 
street, close to the river, among the cotton-presses ? ” 
“Yes. Thalia street they call it now. He says ” — 
“Does he keep a large bakery?” interrupted the 
Doctor. 

“ The ‘ Star Bakery,’ ” said Richling, brightening 


A BISING STAB. 


249 


again. “He says he knows you, and tha., if you will 
give me just one line of recommendation, he will put me 
in charge of his accounts and give me a trial. And a 
trial’s all I want. Doctor. I’m not the least fearful of 
the result.” 

“ Richling,” said Dr. Sevier, slowly picking up his 
paper-folder and shaking it argumentatively, “ where are 
the letters I advised you to send for ? ” 

Richling sat perfectly still, taking a long, slow breath 
through his nostrils, his eyes fixed emptUy on his ques¬ 
tioner. He was thinking, away down at the bottom of 
his heart, — and the Doctor knew it, — that this was the 
unkindest question, and the most cold-blooded, that he 
had ever heard. The Doctor shook his paper-folder 
again. 

“You see, now, as to the bare fact, I don’t know 
you.” 

Richling’s Jaw dropped with astonishment. His eye 
lighted up resentfully. But the speaker went on: — 

“I esteem you highly. I believe in you. I would 
trust you, Richling,”—his listener remembered how the 
speaker had trusted him, and was melted, — “but as to 
recommending you, why, that is like going upon the 
witness-stand, as it were, and I cannot say that I know 
anything.” 

Richling’s face suddenly flashed full of light. He 
touched the Doctor’s hand. 

“That’s it I That’s the very thing, sir I Write 
tjbat I ” 

The Doctor hesitated. Richling sat gazing at him, 
afraid to move an eye lest he should lose an advantage. 
The Doctor turned to his desk and wrote. 

On the next morning Richling did not come for hi# 


250 


DR. SEVIER. 


breakfast; and, not many days after, Dr. Sevier received 
through the mail the following letter: — 

New Orlbajis, Decembei 2, 1857. 

Dear Doctor, —I’ye got the place. I’m Reisen’s book-keeper. 
I’m earning my living. And I like the work. Bread, the word 
bread, that has so long been terrible to me, is now the sweetest 
word in the language. For eighteen months it was a prayer; now 
it’s a proclamation. 

I’ve not only got the place, but I’m going to keep it. I find I 
have new powers; and the first and best of them is the power to 
throw myself into my work and make it me. It’s not a task; it’s a 
mission. Its being bread, I suppose, makes it easier to seem so; 
but it should bo so if it was pork and garlic, or rags and raw-hides. 

My maxim a year ago, though I didn’t know it then, was to do 
what I liked. Now it’s to like what I do. I understand it now. 
And I understand now, too, that a man who expects to retain em¬ 
ployment must yield a profit. He must be worth more than he 
costs. I thank God for the discipline of the last year and a half. 
I thank him that I did not fall where, in my cowardice, I so often 
prayed to fall, into the hands of foolish benefactors. You wouldn’t 
believe this of me, I know; but it’s true. I have been taught 
what life is; I never would have learned it any other way. 

And still another thing: I have been taught to know what the 
poor suffer. I know their feelings, their temptations, their hard¬ 
ships, their sad mistakes, and the frightful mistakes and oversights 
the rich make concerning them, and the ways to give them truennd 
helpful help. And now, if God ever gives me competency, whether 
he gives me abundance or not, I know what he intends me to do, 
I was once, in fact and in sentiment, a brother to the rich; but I 
know that now he has trained me to be a brother to the poor. 
D ^B'fc think I am going to be foolish. I remember that I’m brother 
to the rich too; but I’ll be the othei* as well. How wisely has God 
— what am I saying? Poor fools that we humans are! We can 
hard-y venture to praise God’s wisdom to-day when we think we see 
It, lest it turn out to be only our own folly to-morrow. 

But I find I’m only writing to myself. Doctor, not to you; to 1 
■top. Mary is well, and sends you much love. 

Yours faithfully, 

JoHV BioHLXira. 


A RISING STAR. 


251 


“ Very little about Mary,” murmured Dr. Sevier. 
Vet he was rather pleased than otherwise with the letter. 
He thrust it into his breast-pocket. In the evening, at his 
fireside, he drew it out again and re-read it. 

“Talks as if he had got into an impregnable castle,** 
thought the Doctor, as he gazed into the fire. “Book¬ 
keeper to a baker,” he muttered, slowly folding the sheet 
again. It somehow vexed him to see Richling so happy 
in so low a station. But— “ It’s the joy of what he has 
escaped from, not to,'* he presently remembered. 

A fortnight or more elapsed. A distant relative of Dr. 
Sevier, a man of his own years and profession, was his 
guest for two nights and a day as’ he passed through the 
city, eastward, from an all-summer’s study of fevers in 
Mexico. They were sitting at evening on opposite sides 
of the library fire, conversing in the leisurely ease of those 
to whom life is not a novelty. 

“ And so you think of having Laura and Bess come 
out from Charleston, and keep house for you this winter? 
Their mother wrote me to that effect.” 

“ Yes,” said Dr. Sevier. “ Society here will be a 
great delight to them. They will shine. And time will 
be less monotonous for me. It may suit me, or it may 
not.” 

“ I dare say it may,” responded the kinsman, whereas 
in truth he was very doubtful about it. 

He added something, a moment later, about retiring 
for the night, and his host had just said, “Eh?” when a 
slave, in a five-year-old dress-coat, brought in the card of a 
person whose name was as well known in New Orleans in 
those days as St. Patrick’s steeple or the statue of Jack- 
son in the old Place d’Armes. Dr. Sevier turned it over 
^nd looked for a moment prnderingly upon the domestic 

The relative rose. 


252 


DKi SH V X£S* 


“ You needn’t go,” said Dr. Sevier; but he said “ bt 
had intended,” etc., and went to his chamber. 

The visitor entered. He was a dark, slender, iron 
gray man, of finely cut, regular features, and seeming to 
be much more deeply wrinkled than on scrutiny he proved 
tc be. One quickly saw that he was full of reposing 
energy. He gave the feeling of your being very near 
some weapon, of dreadful eflSciency, ready for instant use 
whenever needed. His clothing fitted him neatly; his 
long, gray mustache was the only thing that hung loosely 
about him; his boots were fine. If he had told a child 
that all his muscles and sinews were wrapped with fine 
steel wire the child would have believed him, and contin- 
aed to sit on his knee all the same. It is said, by those 
who still survive him, that in dreadful places and moments 
the flash of his fist was as quick, as irresistible, and as 
all-suflScient, as lightning, yet that years would sometimes 
pass without its ever being lifted. 

Dr. Sevier lifted his slender length out of his easy- 
chair, and bowed with severe gravity. 

“Good-evening, sir,” he said, and silently thought, 
“Now, what can Smith Izard possibly want with me?” 

It may have been perfectly natural that this man’s 
presence shed off all idea of medical consultation; but 
why should it instantly bring to the Doctor’s mind, as an 
answer to his question, another man as different from 
this one as water from fire? 

The detective returned the Doctor’s salutation, and the^ 
became seated. Then the visitor craved permission to ash 
a confidential question or two for information which he 
was seeking in his official capacity. His manners were a 
little old-fashioned, b it perfect of their kind. The Doc¬ 
tor consented. The man put his hand into his breast- 
Docket, and drew out a daguerreotype case, touched its 


A RISING STAR. 


253 


•pring, and as it opened in hia palm extended it to the 
Doctor. The Doctor took it with evident reluctance. It 
contained the picture of a youth who was just reaching 
manhood. The detective spoke : — 

“ They say he ought to look older than that now.” 

“ He does,” said Dr. Sevier. 

“ Do you know his name?” inquired the detective. 

“No.” 

“ What name do you know him by ? ” 

“John Richling.” 

“ Wasn’t he sent down by Recorder Munroe, last sum¬ 
mer, for assault, etc. ? ” 

“ Yes. I got him out the next day. He never should 
have been put in.” 

To the Doctor’s surprise the detective rose to go. 

“ I’m much obliged to you. Doctor.” 

“ Is that all you wanted to ask me?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Mr. Izard, who is this young man? What has he 
done ? ” 

“I don’t know, sir. I have a letter from a lawyer in 
Kentucky who says he represents this young man’s two 
sisters living there,—half-sisters, rather, — stating that 
his father and mother are both dead, — died within three 
days of each other.” 

“ What name?” 

“ He didn’t g ve the name. He sent this daguerreotype, 
with instiuctions to trace up the young man, if possible. 
He said there was reason to believe he was in New 
Orleans. He said, if I found him, just to see him privately, 
tell him the news, and invite him to come back home. 
But he said if the young fellow had got into any kind of 
trouble that might somehow reflect on the family, you 
know, like getting arrested for something or other, yov 


254 


DS> SBVlBKt 


know, or some such thing, then I was just to drop tn« 
thing quietly, and say nothing about it to him or anybody 
else.” 

“ And doesn’t that seem a strange way to manage a 
matter like that, — to put it into the hands of a detec¬ 
tive ? ” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Izard. “We’re used 
to strange things, and this isn’t so very strange. No, it’s 
very common T suppose he knew that if he gave it to 
me ii would be attended to in a quiet and innocent sort 
o’ way Some people hate mighty bad to get talked about. 
Nobody’s seen that picture but you and one ‘ aid,’ and 
just as soon as he saw it he said, ‘ Why, that’s the chap 
that Dr. Sevier took out of the Parish Prison last Septem¬ 
ber.’ And there won’t anybody else see it.” 

“ Don’t you intend to see Richling? ” asked the Doctor, 
following the detective toward the door. 

“ I don’t see as it would be any use,” said the detective, 
“ seeing he’s been sent down, and so on. I’ll write to the 
lawyer and state the facts, and wait for orders.” 

“ But do you know how slight the blame was that got 
him into trouble here ? ” 

“Yes. The ‘ aid ’ who saw the picture told me all about 
that. It was a shame. I’ll say so. I’ll give all the par¬ 
ticulars. But I tell you, I just guess — they’ll drop 
him.” 

“ I dare say,” said Dr. Sevier. 

“Well, Doctor,” said Mr. Izard, “hope I haven’t 
annoyed you.” 

“ No,” replied the Doctor. 

But he had; and the annoyance had not ceased to b« 
felt when, a few mornings afterward, Narcisse suddenly 
doubled — trebled it by saying : — 

“ Doctah Seveeah,” — it was a cold day and the young 


A RISINQ STAR. 


255 


Creole stood a moment with his back to the office fire, to 
which he had just given an energetic and prolonged 
poking, — “a man was yeh, to see you, name’ Bison. ’F 
want’ to see you about Mistoo Itchlin.” 

The Doctor looked up with a start, and Narcisse con¬ 
tinued : — 

“ Mistoo Itchlin is wuckin’ in ’is employment. I think 
’e’s please’ with ’im.” 

“ Then why does he come to see me about him?” asked 
the Doctor, so sharply that Narcisse shrugged as he 
replied: — 

“ Reely, I cann’ tell you ; but thass one thing, Doctah, 
I dunno if you ’ave notiz: the worl’ halways take a gweat 
deal of welfa’e in a man w’en ’e’s ’ising. I do that myseff. 
Some’ow I cann’ ’e’p it.” This bold speech was too much 
for him. He looked down at his symmetrical legs and 
went back to his desk. 

The Doctor was far from reassured. After a silence 
he called out: — 

“Did he say he would come back?” A knock at the 
door arrested the answer, and a huge, wide, broad-faced 
German entered diflSdently. The Doctor recognized 
Reisen. The visitor took off his flour-dusted hat and 
bowed with great deference. 

“ Toc-tor,” he softly drawled, “I yoost taught 1 
trop in on you to say a verte to you apowt teh chung 
yentlcman vot you hef rickomendet to me.” 

“I didn’t recommend him to you, sir. I wrote you 
distinctly that I did not feel at liberty to recommend 
him.” 

“ Tat iss teh troot, Toctor Tseweer ; tat iss teh ectsectly 
trooi. Shtill I taught I’ll yoost trop in on you to say a 
verte to you, —Toctor, — apowt Mister”— He hung 
Mb large head at one side to remember. 


256 


DR. SEVIER. 


“Richling,” said the Doctor, impatiently. 

“Yes, sir. Apowt Mister Richlun. I heff a iifflculdy 
to rigolict naymps. I yoost taught I voot trop in and trop 
a verte to you apowt ISIr. Richlun, vot maypy you titn’t 
herr udt before, yet.” 

“ Yes,” said the Doctor, with ill-concealed contempt. 
“ Well, speak it out, Mr. Reisen; time is precious.” 

The German smiled and made a silly gesture of assent. 

“Yes, udt is brecious. Shtill I taught I voot take 
enough time to yoost trop in undt say to you tat I heffent 
het Mr. Richlun in my etsteplitchmendt a veek undtil I 
finte owdt someting apowt him, tot, uf you het a-knowdt 
ud, voot hef mate your letter maypy a little tifferendt 
written, yet.” 

Now, at length. Dr. Sevier^s annoyance was turned to 
dismay. He waited in silence for Reisen to unfold his 
enigma, but already his resentment against Richling was 
gathering itself for a spring. To the baker, however, he 
betrayed only a cold hostility. 

“I kept a copy of my letter to you, Mr. Reisen, and 
there isn’t a word in it which need have misled you, sir.” 

The baker waved his hand amicably. 

“ Sure, Tocter Tseweer, I toandt hef nutting to gom- 
blain akinst teh vertes of tat letter. You voss mighty 
puttickly. Ovver, shtill, I hef sumpting to tell you vot 
ef you het a-knowdt udt pefore you writed tose vertes, 
alieatty, t’ey voot a little tifferendt pin.” 

“ Well, sir, why don’t you tell it?” 

Reisen smiled. “Tat iss teh ectsectly vot I am coing 
to too. I yoost taught I’ll trop in undt tell you, Toc- 
tor, tat I heffent het Mr. Richlun in my etsteplitchmendt 
a veek undtil I findte owdt tat he’s a — berfect — 
treasure.” 

Doctor Sevier started half up from his chair, dropped 


A Kisma STAB. 


257 


.nto it again, wheeled half away, and back again with the 
blood surging into his face and exclaimed: — 

“ Why, what do you mean by such drivelling nonsense, 
sir ? You’ve given me a positive fright! ” He frowned 
the blacker as the baker smiled from ear to ear. 

“ Vy, Toctor, I hope you ugscooce me ! I yoost taught 
you voot like to herr udt. Undt Missis Reisen sayce, 
‘ Reisen, you yoost co undt tell um. I taught udt voot 
pe blessant to you to know tatt you hett sendt me teh 
fynust pisness mayn I offer het apowdt me. Undt uff he 
iss onnust he iss a berfect tressure, undt uff he aiiit a 
bcrfect tressure,’ ” —he smiled anew and tendered his 
capacious hat to his listener, — “you yoost kin take tiss, 
Toctor, undt kip udt undt vare udt I Toctor, I vish you 
• merrah ChriB’muft! ” 


DR. SEVIER. 




CHAPTER XXXm. 


BEES, WASPS, AND BUTTERFLIES. 

E merry day went by. The new year, 1858, set in. 



-A- Everything gathered momentum. There was a 
panic and a crash. The brother-in-law of sister Jane — 
he whom Dr. Sevier met at that quiet dinner-party — 
struck an impediment, stumbled, staggered, fell under 
the feet of the racers, and crawled away minus not money 
and credit only, but all his philosophy about helping the 
poor, maimed in spirit, his pride swollen with bruises, his 
heart and his speech soured beyond all sweetening. 

Many were the wrecks. Rut over their d4bris, Mercury 
and Venus — the busy season and the gay season — ran 
lightly, hand in hand. Men getting money and women 
squandering it. Whole nights in the ball-room. Gold 
pouring in at the hopper and out at the spout, — Caron- 
delet street emptying like a yellow river into Canal street. 
Thousands for vanity ; thousands for pride ; thousands for 
influence and for station; thousands for hidden sins; a 
slender fraction for the wants of the body; a slenderer 
for the cravings of the soul. Lazarus paid to stay away 
from the gate. John the Baptist, in raiment of broad¬ 
cloth, a circlet of white linen about his neck, and his 
meat strawberries and ice-cream. The lower classes 
mentioned mincingly ; awkward silences or visible wine- 
ings at allusions to death, and converse on eternal things 
banished as if it were the smell of cabbage. So looked 
the gay world, at least, to Dr. Sevier. 


BEES, WASPS, AND BUTTERFLIES. 


259 


He saw more of it than had been his wont for many 
seasons. The two young-lady cousins whom he had 
brought and installed in his home thirsted for that gor¬ 
geous, nocturnal moth life in which no thirst is truly 
slaked, and dragged him with them into the iridescent, 
gas-lighted spider-web of society. 

“ Now, you know you like it I ” they said. 

‘‘ A little of it, yes. But I donT see how you can like 
it, who virtually live in it and upon it. Why, I would as 
soon try to live upon cake and candy I ” 

“ Well, we can live very nicely upon cake and candy, 
retorted they. 

“Why, girls, it’s no more life than spice is food. 
What lofty motive — what earnest, worthy object ” — 

But they drowned his homily in a carol, and ran away 
arm in arm to dress for another ball. One of them 
stopped in the door with an air of mock bravado: — 

“What do we care for lofty motives or worthy 
objects ? ” 

A smile escaped from him as she vanished. His con¬ 
demnation was flavored with charity. “ It’s their mating 
season,” he silently thought, and, not knowing he did it, 
sighed. 

“There come Dr. Sevier and his two pretty cousins,” 
was the ball-room whisper. “ Beautiful girls — rich wid¬ 
ower without children — great catch I Passe, how? Well, 
maybe so; not as much as he makes himself out, though.” 
“ Passe, yes,” said a merciless belle to a blade of her 
own years ; “ a man of strong sense is passe at any age.” 
Sister Jane’s name was mentioned in the same connection, 
but that illusion quickly passed. The cousins denied in¬ 
dignantly that he had any matrimonial intention. Some¬ 
body dissipated the rumor by a syllogism: A man 


260 


DR. SEVIER. 


hunting a second wife always looks like a fool; the Doctoi 
doesn’t look a bit like a fool, ergo ” — 

He grew very weary of the giddy rout, standing in it 
like a rock in a whirlpool. He did rejoice in the Carnival, 
\ ut only because it was the end. 

“Pretty? yes, as pretty as a bonfire,” he said. “ I 
can’t enjoy much fiddling while Rome is burning.” 

“ But Rome isn’t always burning,” said the cousins. 

“ Yes, it is I Yes, it is!” 

The wickeder of the two cousins breathed a penitential 
sigh, dropped her bare, jewelled arms out of her cloak, 
and said: — 

“ Now tell us once more about Mary Richling.” He 
had bored them to death with Mary. 

Lent was a relief to all three. One day, as the Doctor 
was walking along the street, a large hand grasped his 
elbow and gently arrested his steps. He turned. 

“ Well, Reisen, is that you? ” 

The baker answered with his wide smile. “Yes, Toc- 
tor, tat iss me, sure. You titn’t tink udt iss lilr. Richlun, 
tit you?” 

“ No. How is Richling?” 

“Veil, Mr. Richlun kitten along so-o-o-so-o-o. He iss 
not ferra shtrong ; ovver he vurks like a shteam-inchyine.” 

“ I haven’t seen him for many a day,” said Dr. Sevier. 

The baker distended his eyes, bent his enormous di¬ 
gestive apparatus forward, raised his eyebrows, and hung 
bis arms free from his sides. “ He toandt kit a minudt 
to shpare in teh tswendy-four hourss. Sumptimes he 
sayss, ‘ ISIr. Reisen, I can’t shtop to talk mit you.’ Sindta 
Mr. Richlun pin py my etsteplitchmendt, I tell you teh 
troot, Toctor Tseweer, I am yoost meckin’ monneh 
haynd ofer fist!” He swung his chest forward again, 
drew in his lower regions, revolved his fists around each 


BEES, WASPS, AND BUTTERIUE8. 261 

otheif for a moment, and then let them fall open at hia 
sides, with the added assurance, “Now you kott teh 
ectsectly troot.” 

The Doctor started away, but the baker detained Lina 
by a touch: — 

“ You toandt kott enna verte to sendt to Mr. Bichlun) 
Toctor I ” 

“Yes. Tell him to come and pass an hour with me 
some evening in my library.” 

The German lifted his hand in delight. 

“Vy, tot’s yoost teh dting! Mr. Richlun alvayss pin 
sayin’, ‘ I vish he aysk me come undt see um; ’ undt 
I sayss, ‘You holdt shtill, yet, IVIr. Richlun; teh next 
time I see um I make um aysk you.’ Veil, now, titn’t I 
tunned udt?” He was happy. 

“ Well, ask him,” said the Doctor, and got away. 

“ No fool is an utter fool,” pDndered the Doctor, as he 
went. Two friends had been k ept long apart by the fear 
of each, lest he should seem to be setting up claims based 
on the past. It required a simpleton to bring them 
together. 


262 


DB. SEYlEit 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


TOWARD THE ZENITH 


"OICHLING, I am glad to see yea I” 

-L\> Dr. Sevier had risen from his luxurious chair 
beside a table, the soft downward beams of whose lamp 
partly showed, and partly hid, the rich appointments of 
his library. He grasped Richling’s hand, and with an 
extensive stride drew forward another chair on its smooth¬ 
running castors. 

Then inquiries were exchanged as to the health of one 
and the other. The Doctor, with his professional eye, 
noticed, as the light fell full upon his visitor’s buoyant 
face, how thin and pale he had grown. He rose again, and 
stepping beyond Richling with a remark, in part compli¬ 
mentary and in part critical, upon the balmy April even- 
mg, let down the sash of a window where the smell of 
ioneysuckles was floating in. 

“Have you heard from your wife lately?” he asked, 
AS he resumed his seat. 

“Yesterday,” said Richling. “Yes, she’s very well, 
been well ever since -she left us. She always sends love 
to you.” 

“Hum,” responded the physician. He fixed his eyes 
on the mantel and asked abstractedly, “ How do you bear 
the sepaiation ? ” 

“ OhI ” Richling laughed, “ not very heroically. It’s 
A strain on a man’s philosophy.” 


TOWARD THE ZENITH. 


263 


“Work is the only antidote,*' said the Doctoi, not 
moving his eyes. 

“Yes, so I find it,” answered the other. “It’s bear¬ 
able enough while one is working like mad; but sooner or 
later one must sit down to meals, or lie down to rest, you 
know ” — 

“ Then it hurts,” said the Doctor. 

“ It’s a lively discipline,” mused Richling. 

“ Do you think you learn anything by it?” asked the 
other, turning his eyes slowly upon him. “ That’s what 
it means, you notice.” 

“ Yes, I do,” replied Richling, smiling ; “ I learn the 
very thing I suppose you’re thinking of, — that separation 
isn’t disruption, and that no pair of true lovers are quite 
fitted out for marriage until they can bear separation if 
they must.” 

“Yes,” responded the physician; “if they can muster 
the good sense to see that they’ll not be so apt to marry 
prematurely. I needn’t tell you I believe in marrying 
for love ; but these needs-must marriages are so ineffably 
silly. You ‘ must ’ and you ‘ will ’ marry, and ‘ nobody 
shall hinder you ! ’ And you do it! And in three or four 
or six months” — he drew in his long legs energetically 
from the hearth-pan—“ dea^/i separates you I — death, 
sometimes, resulting directly from the turn your haste 
has given to events! Now, where is your ‘must’ and 
‘ will ’ ? ” He stretched his legs out again, and laid his 
head on his cushioned chair-back. 

“ I have made a narrow escape,” said Richling. 

“ I wasn’t so fortunate,” responded the Doctor, turning 
solemnly toward his young friend. “ Richling, just seven 
months after I married Alice I buried her. I’m not go¬ 
ing into particulars — of course; but the sickness that 
carried her off was distinctly connected with the haste 


264 


DR. SEVIER. 


of our marriage. Your Bible, Richling, that you lay such 
store by, is right; we should want things as if we didn i 
want them. That isn’t the quotation, exactly, but it’s 
the idea. I swore I couldn’t and wouldn’t live without 
her; but, you see, this is the fifteenth year that I have 
had to do it.” 

“ I should think it would have unmanned you for life,” 
said Richling. 

“It made a man of me! I’ve never felt young a day 
since, and yet I’ve never seemed to grow a day older. 
It brought me all at once to my full manhood. I have 
never consciously disputed God’s arrangements since. 
The man who does is only a wayward child.” 

“ It’s true,” said Richling, with an air of confession, 
“ it’s true ; ” and they fell into silence. 

Presently Richling looked around the room. His eyes 
brightened rapidly as he beheld the ranks and tiers of 
good books. He breathed an audible delight. The mul¬ 
titude of volumes rose in the old-fashioned way, in ornate 
cases of dark wood from floor to ceiling, on this hand, 
on that, before him, behind ; some in gay covers,— green, 
blue, crimson,— with gilding and embossing ; some in the 
sumptuous leathers of France, Russia, Morocco, Turkey ; 
others in worn attire, battered and venerable, dingy but 
precious,— the gray heads of the council. 

The two men rose and moved about among those silent 
wits and philosophers, and, from the very embarrassment 
of the inner riches, fell to talking of letter-press and 
bindings, with maybe some effort on the part of each to 
seem the better acquainted with Caxton, the Elzevirs, and 
other like immortals. They easily passed to a competitive 
enumeration of the rare books they had seen or not seen 
here and there in other towns and countries. Richling 
admitted he had trwelled, and the conversation turned 


TOWARD THE ZENITH. 


265 


apon noted buildings and famous old nooks in distant 
cities where both had been. So they moved slowly back 
to their chairs, and stood by them, still contemplating the 
books. But as they sank again into their seats the one 
thought which had fastened itself in the minds of both 
found fresh expression. 

Richling began, smilingly, as if the subject had not 
been dropped at all,— “ I oughtn’t to speak as if I didn’t 
realize my good fortune, for I do.” 

“I believe you do,” said the Doctor, reaching toward 
the fire-irons. 

“ Yes. Still, I lose patience with myself to find myself 
taking Mary’s absence so hard.” 

“All hardships are comparative,” said the Doctor. 

“ Certainly they are,” replied Richling. “I lie some¬ 
times and think of men who have been political prisoners, 
shut away from wife and children, with war raging out¬ 
side and no news coming in.” 

“ Think of the common poor,” exclaimed Dr. Sevier,— 
“ the thousands of sailors’ wives and soldiers’ wives. 
Where does that thought carry you?” 

“ It carries me,” responded the other, with a low laugh, 
“ to where I’m always a little ashamed of myself.” 

“ I didn’t mean it to do that,” said the Doctor; “I 
can imagine how you miss your wife. I miss her my¬ 
self.” 

“Oh! but she’s here on this earth. She’s alive and 
well. Any burden is light when I think of that — pardon 
me, Doctor! ” 

“ Go on, go on. Anything you please about her, Rich- 
ling.” The Doctor half sat, half lay in his chair, his 
eyes partly closed. “ Go on,” he repeated. 

“ I was only going to say that long before Mary went 
away, many a time when she and I were fighting starvar 


266 


DB. SBVIEB. 


tion at close qaarters, I have looked at hei and said to 
myself, ‘What if I were in Dr. Sevier’s place?’ and it 
gave m3 strength to rise up and go on.” 

“ You were right.” 

“ I know I was. I often wake now at night and turn 
and find the place by my side empty, and I can hardly 
iieep from calling her aloud. It wrenches me, but before 
long I think she’s no such great distance away, since 
we’re both on the same earth together, and by and by 
she’ll be here at my side; and so it becomes easy to me 
once more.” Richling, in the self-occupation of a lover, 
forgot what pains he might be inflicting. But the Doctor 
did not wince. 

“Yes,” said the physician, “of course you wouldn’t 
want the separation to be painless; and it promises a 
reward, you know.” 

“ Ah!” exclaimed Richling, with an exultant smile and 
motion of the head, and then dropped his eyes in medi¬ 
tation. The Doctor looked at him steadily. 

“ Richling, you’ve gathered some terribly hard experi¬ 
ences. But hard experiences are often the foundation- 
stones of a successful life. You can make them all 
profitable. You can make them draw you along, so to 
speak. But you must hold them well in hand, as you 
would a dangerous team, you know,— coolly and alertly, 
firmly and patiently,—and never let the reins slack tiU 
you’ve driven through the last gate.” 

Richling replisd, with a pleasant nod, “ I believe I shall 
do H. Did you notice what I wrote you in my letter ? I 
have got the notion strongly that the troubles we have 
gone through — Mary and I — were only our necessarj? 
preparation — not so necessary for her as for me ” — 

“ No,” said Dr. Sevier, and Richling continued, with u 
smile: — 


TOWARD THE ZENITH. 


267 


‘‘To fit us for a long and useful life, and especially a 
life that will be full of kind and valuable services to the 
poor. If that isn’t what they were sent for ”— he dropped 
into a tone of reflection — “then I don’t understand 
them.” 

“ And suppose you don’t understand,” said the Doctor, 
with his cold, grim look. 

“ Oh I ” rejoined Richling, in amiable protest; “ but a 
man would like to understand.” 

“ Like to — yes,” replied the Doctor; “but be careful. 
The spirit that must understand is the spirit that can’t 
trust.” He paused. Presently he said, “ Richling I” 

Richling answered by an inquiring glance. 

“ Take better care of your health,” said the physician. 

Richling smiled — a young man’s answer — and rose fc 
eay good-night. 


268 


DR. SEYIEB. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PUN. 

;S. RILEY missed the Richlings, she said, mors 



J3l 1_ than tongue could tell. She had easily rented the 
rooms they left vacant; that was not the trouble. The 
new tenant was a sallow, gaunt, wind-dried seamstress of 
sixty, who paid her rent punctually, but who was — 

“ Mighty poor company to thim as’s been used to the 
upper tin, Mr. Ristofalo.” 

Still she was a protection. Mrs. Riley had not regarded 
this as a necessity in former days, but now, somehow, 
matters seemed different. This seamstress had, moreover, 
a son of eighteen years, principally skin and bone, who 
was hoping to be appointed assistant hostler at the fire- 
engine house of “ Volunteer One,” and who meantime 
hung about Mrs. Riley’s dwelling and loved to relieve her 
of the care of little Mike. This also was something to be 
appreciated. Still there was a void. 

“ Well, Mr. Richlin’! ” cried Mrs. Riley, as she opened 
her parlor door in response to a knock. “Well, I’ll be 
switched ! ha ! ha ! I didn’t think it was you at all. Take 
a seat and sit down! ” 

It was good to see how she enjoyed the visit. When¬ 
ever she listened to Richling’s words she rocked in her 
rocking-chair vigorously, and when she spoke stopped 
its motion and rested her elbows on its arms. 

“And how is Mrs. Richlin’? And so she sent her 
love to me, did she, now? The blessed angel I Now, 


TO SIGH, YET FEEJL NO PAIN. 


269 


ye^re not just a-makin* that up ? No, 1 know ye wouldn’t 
do sich a thing as that, Mr. Richlin’. Well, you must 
give her mine back again. I’ve nobody else on e’rth to 
give ud to, and never will have.” She lifted her nose 
with amiable stateliness, as if to imply that Richling 
might not believe this, but that it was true, nevertheless. 

“ You may change your mind, Mrs. Riley, some day,” 
returned Richling, a little archly. 

“Hal ha!” She tossed her head and laughed with 
good-natured scorn. “ Niwer a fear o’ that, Mr. Rich- 
lin’ I ” Her brogue was apt to broaden when pleasure 
pulled dowm her dignity. “ And, if I did, it wuddent be 
for the likes of no 1-talian Dago, if id’s him ye’re 
a-dthrivin’ at,— not intinding anny disrespect to your 
friend, Mr. Richlin’, and indeed I don’t deny he’s a per¬ 
fect gintleman, — but, indeed, Mr. Richlin’, I’m just after 
thinkin’ that you and yer lady wouldn’t have no self- 
respect for Kate Riley if she should be changing her 
name.” 

“ Still you were thinking about it,” said Richling, with 
a twinkle. 

“ Ah ! ha! ha ! Indeed I wasn’, an’ ye needn’ be t’rowin’ 
anny o’ yer slyness on me. Ye know ye’d have no self- 
respect fur me. No; now ye know ye wuddent, — wud 
ye?” 

“Why, Mrs. Riley, of course we would. Why — why 
not?” He stood in the door-way, about to take his leave. 
“You may be sure we’ll always be glad of anything that 
will make you the happier.” Mrs. Riley looked so grave 
that he checked his humor. 

“ But in the nixt life, Mr. Richlin’, how about that?” 

“There? I suppose we shall simply each love all in 
absolute perfection. We’ll ” — 

“We’ll never know the differ,” interposed Mrs. Riley 


270 


DR* SBVXJGR* 


“That’s it/' said Richling, smiling again. “And sa 
I say,— and Fve always said,— if a person feels like 
marrying again, let him do it.” 

“Have ye, now? Well, ye’re Just that good, Mr 
Richlin’.” 

“Yes,” ho responded, trying to be grave, “ that’s about 
my measure.” 

“ Would you do ut? ” 

“ No, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. But I should like — in 
good earnest, Mrs. Riley, I should like, now, the comfort 
of knowing that you were not to pass all the rest of your 
days in widowhood.” 

“ Ah! ged out, Mr. Richlin’ I ” She failed in her effort 
to laugh. “ Ah I ye’re sly 1 ” She changed her attitude 
and drew a breath. 

“No,” said Richling, “no, honestly. I should feel 
that you deserved better at this world’s hands than that, 
and that the world deserved better of you. I find two 
people don’t make a world, Airs. Riley, though often they 
think they do. They certainly don’t when one is gone.” 

“ Mr. Richlin’,” exclaimed Mrs. Riley, drawing back 
and waving her hand sweetly, “ stop yer flattery I Stop 
ud I Ah I ye’re a-feeling yer oats, Mr. Richlin’. An’ ye’re 
a-showin’ em too, ye air. Why, I hered ye was lookin’ 
terrible, and here y^’re lookin’ just splendudl” 

“ Who told you that?” asked Richling. 

“Never mind I Never mind who he was—ha, ha, 
ha I ” She checked herself suddenly. “ Ah, me 1 It’s a 
shame for the likes o’ me to be behavin’ that foolish! ” 
She put on additional dignity. “ I will always be the 
Widow Riley.” Then relaxing again into sweetness. 
“ Marridge is a lottery, Mr. Richlin’; indeed an’ it is; 
and ye know mighty well that he ye’re after 'oking m« 


TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN. 271 

about is no more nor a fri’nd/^ She looked sweet enough 
for somebody to kiss. 

“ I don’t know so certainly about that,” said her vis¬ 
itor, stepping down upon the sidewalk and putting on his 
hat. “ If I may judge by ” — He paused and glanced 
at the window. 

“ Ah, now, Mr. Richlin’, na-na-now, Mr. Richlin’, ye 
daurn’t say ud I Ye daurn’t! ” She smiled and blushed 
and arched her neck and rose and sank upon herself with 
sweet delight. 

“ I say if I may judge by what he has said to me,” 
insisted Richling. 

Mrs. Riley glided down across the door-step, and, with 
all the insinuation of her sex and nation, demanded: — 

“ What’d he tell ye? Ah I he didn’t tell ye nawthing I 
Ha, ha! there wasn’ nawthing to tell I ” But Richling 
slipped away. 

Mrs. Riley shook her finger: “ Ah, ye’re a wicket joker, 
Mr. Richlin’. I didn’t think that o’ the likes of a gintle- 
man like you, anyhow ! ” She shook her finger again as 
she withdrew into the house, smiling broadly all the way 
in to the cradle, where she kissed and kissed again her 
ruddy, chubby, sleeping boy. 

Ristofalo came often. He was a man of simple words, 
and of few thoughts of the kind that were avanable in con¬ 
versation ; but Iiis personal adventures had begun almost 
with infancy, and followed one another in close and strange 
succession over lands and seas ever since. He could there¬ 
fore talk best about himself, though he talked modestly. 
“ These things to hear would Desdemona seriously incline,” 
and there came times when even a tear was not wanting to 
gem the poetry of the situation. 

“ And ye might have saved yerself from all that,^’ was 


272 


DR. 8EVIBB. 


sometimes her note of sympathy. But when he asked 
how she silently dried her eyes. 

Sometimes his experiences had been intensely ludicrous, 
and Mrs. Riley would laugh until in pure self-oblivion she 
smote her thigh with her palm, or laid her hand so smartly 
against his shoulder as to tip him half off his seat. 

“Ye didn’t!” 

“ Yes.” 

“Ah! Get out wid ye, Raphael Ristofalo,—to be 
telling me that for the trooth! ” 

At one such time she was about to give him a second 
push, but he took the hand in his, and quietly kept it to 
the end of his story. 

He lingered late that evening, but at length took his hat 
from under his chair, rose, and extended his hand. 

“ Man alive!” she cried, “ that’s my hand^ sur, I’d 
have ye to know. Begahn wid ye! Lookut heere! 
What’s the reason ye make it so long atween yer visits, 
eh ? Tell me that. Ah — ah — ye’ve no need fur to tell 
me, Mr. Ristofalo! Ah — now don’t tell a lie ! ” 

“ Too busy. Come all time — wasn’t too busy.” 

“ Ha, ha! Yes, yes ; ye’re too busy. Of coorse ye’re 
too busy. Oh, yes! ye air too busy — a-courtin’ thim 
I-talian froot gerls around the Frinch Mairket. Ah! I’ll 
bet two bits ye’re a bouncer! Ah, don’t tell me. I know 
ye, ye villain! Some o’ thim’s a-waitin’ fur ye now, ha, 
ha! Go! And don’t ye niwer come back heere anny 
> more. D’ye mind ? ” 

“ Aw righ’.” The Italian took her hand for the third 
time and held it, standing in his simple square way before 
her and wearing his gentle smile as he looked her in the 
eye. “ Good-by, Kate.” 

Her eye quailed. Her hand pulled a little helplessly 
and in a meek voice she said: — 


TO flIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN. 


273 


“ That’s not right for you to do me that a-way, Mr. 
Ristofalo. I’ve got a handle to my name, sur.” 

She threw some gentle rebuke into her glance, and 
tamed it upon him. He met it with that same amiable 
absence of emotion that was always in his look. 

“Kate too short by itself?” he asked. “Aw righ’; 
make it Kate Ristofalo. ” 

“ No,” said ]\Irs. Riley, averting and drooping her 
face. 

“ Take good care of you,” said the Italian ^ “ you and 
Mike. Always be kind. Good care.” 

Mrs. Riley turned with sudden fervor. 

“ Good cayre I — Mr. Ristofalo,” she exclaimed, lifting 
her free hand and touching her bosom with the points of 
her fingers, “ ye don’t know the hairt of a woman, surr ! 
No-o-o, surr! It’s love we wants ! ‘ The hairt as has trooly 
loved niwer furgits, but as trooly loves ahn to thetlose ! ’ ” 

“Yes,” said the Italian; “yes,” nodding and ever 
smiling, “dass aw righ’.” 

But she: — 

“Ah! it’s no use fur you to be a-talkin’ an’ a-palla- 
verin’ to Kate Riley when ye don’t be lovin’ her, Mr. 
Ristofalo, an’ ye know ye don’t.” 

A tear glistened in her eye. 

“Yes, love you,” said the Italian; “course, love you.” 

He did nDt move a foot or change the expression of a 
feature. 

“ H-yes 1 ” said the widow. H-yes I ” she panted. H* 
yes, a little I A little, Mr. Ristofalo! But I want” — 
she pressed her hand hard upon her bosom, and raised 
her eyes aloft — “I want to be — h—h — h-adaured 
above all the e’rth! ” 

“Aw righ’,” said Ristofalo; “das aw ligh’; yes — 
door above all you worth.” 


274 


DR. SEVIER. 


“Raphael Ristofalo,” she said, “ye’re a-deceivin’ me! 
Ye came heere whin nobody axed ye, — an’ that ye know 
is a fact, suit, — an’ made yerself agree’ble to a poor, 
unsuspectin’ widdah, an’ \tears] ribbed me o’ mie haul:, 
ye did; whin I nivver intinded to git married ag’in.” 

“Don’t cry, Kate — Kate Ristofalo,” quietly observed 
the Italian, getting an arm around her waist, and laying 
a hand on the farther cheek. “ Kate Ristofalo.” 

“Shut!” she exclaimed, turning with playful fierce¬ 
ness, and proudly drawing back her head ; “ shut! Hah I 
It’s Kate Ristofalo, is it? Ah, ye think so? Hah-hl 
It’ll be ad least two weeks yet before the priest will be 
after giving you the right to call me that I ” 

And, in fact, an entire fortnight did pass before they 
were married. 


WHAT NAME? 


275 


V 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

WHAT NAME ? 

R ICHLING in Dr. Sevier’s library, one evening in 
early May, gave him great amusement by an account 
of the Ristofalo-Riley wedding. He had attended it only 
the night before. The Doctor had received an invitation, 
but had pleaded previous engagements. 

“ But I am glad you went,” he said to Richling; “ how¬ 
ever, go on with your account.” 

“Oh! I was glad to go. And I’m certainly glad I 
went.” 

Richling proceeded with the recital. The Doctor 
smiled. It was very droll, — the description of persons 
and costumes. Richling was quite another than his usual 
restrained self this evening. Oddly enough, too, for this 
was but his second visit; the confinement of his work was 
almost like an imprisonment, it was so constant. The 
Doctor had never seen him in just such a glow. He even 
mimicked the brogue of two or three Irish gentlemen, and 
the soft, outlandish swing in the English of one or two 
Sicilians He did it all so well that, when he gave an 
instance ^f some of the broad Hibernian repartee he had 
heard, the Doctor actually laughed audibly. One of his 
young-lady cousins on some pretext opened a door, and 
stole a glance within to see what could have produced » 
thing so extraordinary. 

“ Come in, Laura; come in! Tell Bess to come in.” 
The Doctor introduced Richling with due ceremony 


276 


DR. SEVIER. 


Richling could not, of course, after tnis accession of 
numbers, go on being funny. The mistake was trivial, 
but all saw it. Still the meeting was pleasant. The girls 
were very intelligent and vivacious. Richling found a 
certain refreshment in their graceful manners, like what 
we sometimes feel in catching the scent of some long- 
forgotten perfume. They had not been told all his his¬ 
tory, but had heard enough to make them curious to see 
and speak to him. They were evidently pleased with 
him, and Dr. Sevier, observing this, betrayed an air that 
was much like triumph. But after a while they went as 
they had come. 

“Doctor,’’ said Richling, smiling until Dr. Sevier won¬ 
dered silently what possessed the fellow, “ excuse me for 
bringing this here. But I find it so impossible to get to 
your office ” — He moved nearer the Doctor’s table and 
put his hand into his bosom. 

“ WTiat’s that?” asked the Doctor, frowning heavily, 
Richling smiled still broader than before. 

“ This is a statement,” he said. 

“Of what?” 

“ Of the various loans you have made me, with interest 
to date.” 

“ Yes? ” said the Doctor, frigidly. 

“ And here,” persisted the happy man, straightening 
out a leg as he had done the first time they ever met, 
and drawing a roll of notes from his pocket, is the total 
amount.” 

“Yes?” The Doctor regarded them with cold con¬ 
tempt. “ That’s all very pleasant for you, I suppose, 
Richling, — shows you’re the right kind of man, I sup¬ 
pose, and so on. I know that already, however. Now 
Just put all that back into your pocket; the sight of it 


WHAT name" 


27 ? 


Isn’t pleasant. You certainly don’t imagine - m going 
to take it, do you?” 

“ You promised to take it when you lent it.” 

“ Humph I Well, I didn’t say when.” 

“ As soon as I could pay it,” said Richling. 

“ I don’t remember,” replied the Doctor, picking up a 
newspaper. “ I release myself from that promise.” 

“ I don’t release you,” persisted Richling; “ neither 
does Mary.” 

The Doctor was quiet awhile before he answered. He 
crossed his knees, a moment after folded his arms, and 
presently said: — 

“Foolish pride, Richling.” 

“We know that,” replied Richling; “we don’t deny 
that that feeling creeps in. But we’d never do anything 
that’s right if we waited for an unmixed motive, would 
we?” 

“Then you think my motive — in refusing it — is 
mixed, probably.” 

“ Ho-o-oh I ” laughed Richling. The gladness within 
him would break through. “ Why, Doctor, nothing could 
be more different. It doesn’t seem to me as though you 
ever had a mixed motive.” 

The Doctor did not answer. He seemed to think the 
same thing. 

“ We know very well. Doctor, that if we should accept 
this kindness we might do it in a spirit of proper and 
commendable — a — humble-mindedness. But it isn’t 
mere pride that makes us insist.” 

“ No? ” asked the Doctor, cruelly. “ What is it else?” 

“ Why, I hardly know what to call it, except that it’s 
a conviction that — well, that to pay is best; that it’s the 
nearest to justice we can get, and that”—he spoke fastei 
— “ that it’s simply duty to choose justice when we can 


278 


DR. SEVIER. 


and mercy when we must. There, Fve hit it out! ” He 
laughed again. “Don’t you see, Doctor? Justice when 
we may — mercy when we must! It’s your own prin¬ 
ciples I ” 

The Doctor looked straight at the mantel-piece as he 
asked: — 

“Where did you get that idea?” 

“ I don’t know ; partly from nowhere, and ” — 

“ Partly from Mary,” interrupted the Doctor. He put 
out his long white palm. “ It’s all right. Give me the 
money.” Richling counted it into his hand. He rolled 
it up and stuffed it into his portemonnaie. 

“ You like to part with your hard earnings, do you, 
Richling?” 

“ Earnings can’t be hard,” was the reply; “it’s bor¬ 
rowings that are hard.” 

The Doctor assented. 

“And, of course,”said Richling, “I enjoy paying old 
debts.” He stood and leaned his head in his hand with 
his elbow on the mantel. “But, even aside from that. 
I’m happy.” 

“ I see you are ! ” remarked the physician, emphatically, 
catching the arms of his chair and drawing his feet closer 
in. “You’ve been smiling worse than a boy with a love- 
letter.” 

“ I’ve been hoping you’d ask me what’s the matter.” 

“ Well, then, Richling, what is the matter? ” 

“ Mary has a daughter.” 

“ Wliat! ” cried the Doctor, springing up with a radiant 
face, and grasping Richling’s hand in both his own. 

^ Richling laughed aloud, nodded, laughed again, and 
gave either eye a quick, energetic wipe with all his fingers. 

“Doctor,” he said, as the physician sank back into hia 
chair, “ we want to name” — he hesitated, stood on one 


WHAT NAME? 


279 


foot and leaned again against the shelf — “we want tc 
call her by the name of — if we may ” — 

The Doctor looked up as if with alarm, and John said, 
timidly, — “ Alice ! ” 

Dr. Sevier’s eyes — what was the matter ? His mouth 
quivered. He nodded and whispered huskily: — 

“ AU right. 

After a long pause Richling expressed the opinion 
that he had better be going, and the Doctor did not in¬ 
dicate any difference of conviction. At the door the 
Doctor asked: — 

“ If the fever should break out this summer, Richling, 
will you go away?” 

“ No.” 


m 


DS. SEYIBR. 


CHAPTER XXXVn. 


PESTTLENC®! 


N the twentieth of June, 1858, an incident occurred 



in New Orleans which challenged special attention 
from the medical profession. Before the month closed 
there was a second, similar to the first. The press did 
not give such matters to the public in those days; it 
would only make the public — the advertising public — 
angry. Times have changed since — faced clear about; 
but at that period Dr. Sevier, who hated a secret only 
less than a falsehood, was right in speaking as he did. 

“ Now you’ll see,” he said, pointing downward aslant, 
“ the whole community stick its head in the sand I ” He 
sent for Richling. 

“ I give you fair warning,” he said. “ It’s coming.” 

“ Don’t cases occur sometimes in an isolated way with¬ 
out — anything further ? ” asked Richling, with a prompt¬ 
ness which showed he had already been considering the 
matter. 


“ And might not this ” — 

“ Richling, I give you fair warning.” 

“ Have you sent your cousins away. Doctor? ” 

“ They go to-morrow.” After a silence the Doctor 
added: “I tell you now, because this is the time to 
decide what you will do. If you are not prepared to take 
all the risks and stay them through, you had better go a 
once.” 


PESTILBNOB. 


281 


“ What proportion of those who are taken sick of it 
die ? ” asked Richling. 

“ The proportion varies in different seasons ; say about 
one in seven or eight. But your chances would be 
hardly so good, for you’re not strong, Richling, nor weU 
either.” 

Richling stood and swung his hat against his ^knee. 

“I really don’t see. Doctor, that I have any choice at 
all. I couldn’t go to Mary — when she has but just come 
through a mother’s pains and dangers — and say, ‘ I’ve 
thrown away seven good chances of life to run away from 
one bad one.’ WTiy, to say nothing else, Reisen can’t 
spare me.” He smiled with boyish vanity. 

“ O Richling, that’s silly ! ” 

“I—I know it,” exclaimed the other, quickly; “I 
see it is. If he could spare me, of course he wouldn’t be 
paying me a salary.” But the Doctor silenced him by a 
gesture. 

“ The question is not whether he can spare you, at all. 
It’s simply, can you spare him ? ” 

“Without violating any pledge, you mean,” added 
Richling. 

“ Of course,” assented the physician. 

“ Well, I can’t spare him. Doctor. He has given me a 
hold on life, and no one chance in seven, or six, or five 
is going to shake me loose. Why, I tell you I couldn’t 
look Mary in the face ! ” 

‘ ‘ Have your own way,” responded the Doctor. ‘ ‘ There 
are some things in your favor. You frail fellows often 
pull through easier than the big, full-blooded ones.” 

“Oh, ifs Mary’s way too, I feel certain!” retorted 
Richling, gayly, “and I venture to say” — he coughed 
and smiled again— “ it’s yours.” 

“ I didn’t say it wasn’t,” replied the unsmiling Doctor, 


282 


DR. SEVIER. 


reaching for a pen and writing a prescription. ‘‘Here** 
get that and take it according to direction. It’s for that 
cold.” 

“If I should take the fever,” said Richling, coming 
out of a revery, “ Mary will want to come to me.” 

“Well, she mustn’t come a step!” exclaimed the 
Doctor. 

“ You’ll forbid it, will you not. Doctor? Pledge me I ” 

“ I do better, sir; I pledge myself.” 

So the July suns rose up and moved across the beauti¬ 
ful blue sky; the moon went through all her majestic 
changes; on thirty-one successive midnights the Star 
Bakery sent abroad its grateful odors of bread, and as 
the last night passed into the first twinkling hour of 
morning the month chronicled one hundred and thirty- 
one deaths from yellow fever. The city shuddered be¬ 
cause it knew, and because it did not know, what was in 
store. People began to fly by hundreds, and then by 
thousands. Many were overtaken and stricken down as 
they fled. Still men plied their vocations, children played 
in the streets, and the days came and went, fair, blu® 
tremulous with sunshine, or cool and gray and sweet with 
summer rain. How strange it was for nature to be so 
beautiful and so unmoved! By and by one could not 
look down a street, on this hand or on that, but he saw a 
funeral. Doctors’ gigs began to be hailed on the streets 
and to refuse to stop, and houses were pointed out that 
had just become the scenes of strange and harrowing 
episodes. 

“ Do you see that bakery, — the ‘ Star Bakery ’ ? Five 
funerals from that place — and another goes this after¬ 
noon.” 

Before this was said August had completed its record 
of eleven hundred deaths, and September had begun th« 


PESTILELNOE. 


283 


long list that was to add twenty-two hundred more. 
Reisen had been the first one ill in the establishment. 
He had been losing friends, — one every few days; and 
he thought it only plain duty, let fear or prudence say 
what they might, to visit them at their bedsides and 
follow them to their tombs. It was not only the outer 
man of Reisen, but the heart as well, that was elephan¬ 
tine. He had at length come home from one of these 
funerals with pains in his back and limbs, and the various 
familiar accompaniments. 

“ I feel right clumsy,” he said, as he lifted his great 
feet and lowered them into the mustard foot-bath. 

“ Doctor Sevier,” said Richling, as he and the physi¬ 
cian paused half way between the sick-chambers of Reisen 
and his wife, “ I hope you’ll not think it foolhardy for 
me to expose myself by nursing these people ” — 

“ No,” replied the veteran, in a tone of indifference, and 
passed on; the tincture of self-approval that had “ mixed ” 
with Richling’s motives went away to nothing. 

Both Reisen and his wife recovered. But an apple¬ 
cheeked brother of the baker, still in a green cap and 
coat that he had come in from Germany, was struck from 
the first with that mortal terror which is so often an evil 
symptom of the disease, and died, on the fifth day after 
his attack, in raging delirium. Ten of the workmen, 
bakers and others, followed him. Richling alone, of aU 
in the establishment, while the sick lay scattered through 
the town on uncounted thousands of beds, and the month 
of October passed by, bringing death to eleven hundred 
more, escaped untouched of the scourge. 

“ 1 can’t understand it,” he said. 

“Demand an immediate explanation,” said Dr. Sevier, 
with sombre irony. 


284 


DR. SEVIER. 


How did others fare? Ristofalo had, time and again, 
sailed with the fever, nursed it, slept with it. It passed 
him by again. Little Mike took it, lay two or three days 
very still in his mother’s strong arms, and recovered 
Madame Ristofalo had had it in “fifty-three.” She 
became a heroic nurse to many, and saved life after life 
among the poor. 

The trials of those days enriched John Richling in the 
acquaintanceship and esteem of Sister Jane’s little lisping 
rector. And, by the way, none of those with^whom Dr. 
Sevier dined on that darkest night of Richling’s life 
became victims. The rector had never encountered the 
disease before, but when Sister Jane and the banker, and 
the banker’s family and friends, and thousands of others, 
fled, he ran toward it, David-like, swordless and armor¬ 
less. He and Richling were nearly of equal age. Three 
times, four times, and again, they met at dying-beds. 
They became fond of each other. 

Another brave nurse was Narcisse. Dr. Sevier, it is 
true, could not get rid of the conviction for years after¬ 
ward that one victim would have lived had not Narcisse 
talked him to death. But in general, where there was 
some one near to prevent his telling all his discoveries 
and inventions, he did good service, and accompanied it 
with very chivalric emotions. 

“ Yesseh,” he said, with a strutting attitude that some¬ 
how retained a sort of modesty, “I ’ad the gweatess 
success. Hah ! a nuss is a nuss those time’. Only some 
time’ ’e’s not. ’Tis accawding to the povvub, — what is 
that povvub, now, ag’in ? ” The proverb did not answer 
his call, and he waved it away. “Yesseh, eve’ybody 
wanting me at once — couldn’ supply the deman’.” 

Richling listened to him with new pleasure and rising 
esteem. 


rESTILENOE. 


285 


“ You make me envy you,” he exclaimed, honestly. 

“ Well, I s’pose you may say so, Mistoo Itchlin, faw 1 
nevva nuss a sing-le oue w’at din paid me ten dollahs a 
night. Of co’se ! ‘ Consistency, thou awt a jew’l.^ It's 
juz as the povvub says, ‘ All work an’ no pay keep Jack 
a small boy.’ An’ yet,” he hurriedly added, remembering 
liis indebtedness to his auditor, “ ’tis aztonizhin’ ’ow ’tis 
expensive to live. I haven’ got a picayune of that money 
p wcsently I I’m aztonizh myseS I ” 


286 


DB. SBTIBB. 


CHAPTER XXXVDi. 

“ I MUST BB CRUEL ONLY TO BE 

T he plague grew sated and feeble. On« morning 
frost sent a flight of icy arrows into the to?m, and it 
vanished. The swarthy girls and lads that sauntered 
homeward behind their mothers' cows across the wide 
suburban stretches of marshy commons heard again the 
deep, unbroken, cataract roar of the reawakened city. 

We call the sea cruel, seeing its waters dimple and 
smile where yesterday they dashed in pieces the ship that 
was black with men, women, and children. But what 
shall we say of those billows of human life, of which we 
are ourselves a part, that surge over the graves of its own 
dead with dances and laughter and many a coquetry, with 
panting chase for gain and preference, and pious regrets 
and tender condolences for the thousands that died 
yesterday — and need not have died ? 

Such were the questions Dr. Sevier asked himself as he 
laid down the newspaper full of congratulations upon the 
return of trade’s and fashion’s boisterous flow, and praises 
of the deeds of benevolence and mercy that had abounded 
throughout the days of anguish. 

Certain currents in these human rapids had driven 
Richling and the Doctor wide apart. But at last, one 
day, Richling entered the oflQce with a cheerfulness of 
countenance something overdone, and indicative to the 
Doctor’s eye of inward trepidation. 


"l MUST BE CRUEL ONLY TO BE KIND/^ 287 

“Doctor,” he said hurriedly, “ preparing to leave the 
office? It was the only moment I could command” — 

“ Good-morning, Richling.” 

“ Tve been trying every day for a week to get down 
here,” said Richling, drawing out a paper. “ Doctor ” — 
with his eyes on the paper, which he had begun to unfold. 

“Richling”— It was the Doctor’s hardest voice. 
Richling looked up at him as a child looks at a thunder¬ 
cloud. The Doctor pointed to the document t — 

“ Is that a subscription paper? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You needn’t unfold it, Richling.” The Doctor made 
a little pushing motion at it with his open hand. ‘ ‘ From 
whom does it come ? ” 

Richling gave a name. He had not changed color when 
the Doctor looked black, but now he did ; for Dr. Sevier 
smiled. It was terrible. 

“ Not the little preacher that lisps?” asked the phy¬ 
sician. 

“ He lisps sometimes,” said Richling, with resentful 
subsidence of tone and with dropped eyes, preparing to 
return the paper to his pocket. 

“Wait,” said the Doctor, more gravely, arresting the 
movement with his index finger. “What is it for?” 

“ It’s for the aid of an asylum overcrowded with 
orphans in consequence of the late epidemic.” There 
was still a tightness in Richling’s throat, a faint bitterness 
in his tone, a spark of indignation in his eye. But these 
the Doctor ignored. He reached out his hand, took the 
folded paper gently from Richling, crossed his knees, and, 
resting his elbows on them and shaking the paper in a 
prefatory way, spoke: — 

“ Richling, in old times we used to go into monasteries; 
now we subscribe to orphan asylums. Nine months ago 


288 


DR. SEVIER. 


I warned this community that if it didn^t take the necew 
sary precautions against the foul contagion that has since 
swept over us it would pay for its wicked folly in the lives 
of thousands and the increase of fatherless and helpless 
children. 1 didn’t know it would come this year, but I 
knew it might come any year. Richling, we deserved 
it!” 

Richling had never seen his friend in so forbidding an 
aspect. He had come to him boyishly elated with the 
fancied excellence and goodness and beauty of the task 
he had assumed, and a perfect confidence that his noble 
benefactor would look upon him with pride and upon the 
scheme with generous favor. When he had oflfered to 
present the paper to Dr. Sevier he had not understood 
the little rector’s marked alacrity in accepting his service. 
Now it was plain enough. He was well-nigh dumfounded. 
The responses that came from him came mechanically, 
and in the manner of one who wards off unmerited buffet* 
Ings from one whose unkindness may not be resented. 

“ You can’t think that only those died who were to 
blame?” he asked, helplessly; and the Doctor’s answer 
came back instantly: — 

“ Ho, no ! look at the hundreds of little graves I No, 
sir. If only those who were to blame had been stricken, 
I should think the Judgment wasn’t far off. Talk of 
God’s mercy in times of health I There’s no greater evi¬ 
dence of it than to S3e him, in these awful visitations, 
.efusing still to disci iminate between the innocent and 
the guilty 1 Richling, only Infinite Mercy joined to Infi¬ 
nite Power, with infinite command of the future, could so 
forbear I ” 

Ricliliug could not answer. The Doctor unfolded the 
paper and began to read: “ ‘ God, in his mysterious 
providence’ — O sir I” 


*'l MUSI BE CRUEL ONLY TO BE KIND.” 289 

What! ” demanded Richling. 

“ O sir, what a foul, false charge! There’s nothing 
mysterious about it. WeVe trampled the book of Nature’s 
laws in the mire of our streets, and dragged her penalties 
down upon our heads I Why, Richling,” — he shifted 
his attitude, and laid the edge of one hand upon the paper 
that lay in the other, with the air of commencing a demon¬ 
stration, — “ you’re a Bible man, eh? Well, yes, I think 
you are ; but I want you never to forget that the book of 
Nature has its commandments, too; and the man who 
sins against them is a sinner. There’s no dispensation of 
mercy in that Scripture to Jew or Gentile, though the God 
of Mercy wrote it with his own finger. A community has 
got to know those laws and keep them, or take the conse¬ 
quences — and take them here and now — on this globe — 
•presently 1 ” 

“You mean, then,” said Richling, extending his hand 
for the return of the paper, “ that those whose negligence 
filled the asylums should be the ones to subscribe.” 

“ Yes,” replied the Doctor, “ yes! ” drew back his 
hand with the paper still in it, turned to his desk, opened 
the list, and wrote. Richling’s eyes followed the pen; 
his heart came slowly up into his throat. 

“Why, Doc — Doctor, that’s more than any one else 
has ” — 

“ They have probably made some mistake,” said 
Dr. Sevier, rubbing the blotting-paper with his finger. 
“ Ridding, do you think it’s your mission to be a philan¬ 
thropist?” 

•‘Isn’t it everybody’s mission?” replied Richling. 

“ That’s not what I asked you.” 

“ But you ask a question,” said Richling, smiling down 
upon the subscription-paper as he folded it, “ that nobody 
would like to answer.” 


290 


D&. SEVIEB. 


“ Very well, then, you needn’t answer. But, llichling,’* 
^ he pointed his long finger to the pocket of Richling’s 
coat, where the subscription-list had disappeared,— “ this 
sort of work — whether you distinctly propose to be a 
philanthropist or not — is right, of course. It’s good. 
But it’s the mere alphabet of beneficence. Richling, 
whenever phitSntHropy takeriffie of philanthropy, 

look out. Confine your philanthropy — you can’t do it 
entiiely, but as much as you can — confine your philan¬ 
thropy to the motive. It’s the temptation of philanthro¬ 
pists to set aside the natural constitution of society 
wherever it seems out of order, and substitute some 
philanthropic machinery in its place. It’s all wrong, 
Richling. Do as a good doctor would. Help nature.” 

Richling looked down askance, pushed his fingers 
through his hair perplexedly, drew a deep breath, lifted 
his eyes to the Doctor’s again, smiled incredulously, and 
rubbed his brow. 

“You don’t see it?” asked the physician, in a tone of 
surprise. 

“O Doctor,” — throwing up a despairing hand,— 
“ we’re miles apart. I don’t see how any work could be 
nobler. It looks to me”— But Dr. Sevier interrupted. 

“ — From an emotional stand-point, Richling. Rich¬ 
ling,”— he changed his attitude again, — “if you loani 
to be a philanthi’opist, be cold-blooded.” 

Richling laughed outright, but not heaitily. 

“Well!” said his friend, with a shrug, as if he dis¬ 
missed the whole matter. But when Richling moved, as 
if to rise, he restrained him. “ Stop ! I know you’re iu 
a hurry, but you may tell Reisen to blame me.” 

“ It’s not Reisen so much as it’s the work,” replied 
Richling, but settled down again in his seat. 

“ Richling, human tenevolence — public benevolence — 


I MUST BE CRUEL ONLY TO BE KIND. 


291 


m its beginning was a mere nun on the battle-field, bind 
ing up wounds and wiping the damp from dying brows 
But since then it has had time and opportunity to become 
strong, bold, masculine, potential. Once it had only the 
knowledge and power to alleviate evil consequences; now 
\t has both the knowledge and the power to deal with e'^il 
causes. Now, I say to you, leave this emotional ABC 
of human charity to nuns and mite societies. It’s a good 
work; let them do it. Give them money, if you can.” 

“I see what you mean — I think,” said Richling, 
slowly, and with a pondering eye. 

“Fm glad if you do,” rejoined the Doctor, visibly 
relieved. 

“But that only throws a heavier responsibility upon 
strong men, if I understand it,” said Richling, half inter¬ 
rogatively. 

“ Certainly! Upon strong spirits, male or female. 
Upon spirits that can drive the axe low down into the 
causes of things, again and again and again, steadily, pa¬ 
tiently, until at last some great evil towering above them 
totters and falls crashing to the earth, to be cut to pieces 
and burned in the fire. Richling, gather fagots for pastime 
if you like, though it’s poor fun; but don’t think that’s 
your mission ! DonH be a fagot-gatherer I What are you 
smiling at ? ” 

“Your good opinion of me,” answered Richling. 
“ Doctor, I don’t believe I’m fit for anything but a fagot- 
g itherer. But I’m willing to try.” 

“Oh, bah’” The Doctor admired such humility as 
little as it deserved. “Richling, reduce the number of 
helpless orphans ! Dig out the old roots of calamity I A 
spoon is not what you want; you want a mattock. Reduce 
crime and vice ! Reduce squalor I Reduce the poor man s 
leath-ratol Lnprove his tenements! improve his hoe 


292 


DR. SEVIER. 


pitals I tarry sanitation into his workshops! Teach the 
trades! Prepare the poor for possible riches, and the 
rich for possible poverty I Ah — ah — Richling, I preach 
well enough, I think, but in practice I have missed it 
aayself ! Don’t repeat my error! ” 

“ Oh, but you haven’t missed it! ” cried Richling. 

“Yes, but I have,” said the Doctor. “Here I am, 
telling you to let your philanthropy be cold-blooded; 
why, I’ve always been hot-blooded.” 

“ I like the hot best,” said Richling, quickly. 

“You ought to hate it,” replied his friend. “ It’s 
been the root of all your troubles. Richling, God Al¬ 
mighty is iinimpassioued. If he wasn’t he’d be weak. 
You remember Young’s line: ‘ A God all mercy is a God 
unjust.’ The time has come when beneficence, to be real, 
must operate scientifically, not emotionally. Emotion is 
good; but it must follow, not guide. Here! I’ll give 
you a single instance. Emotion never sells where it can 
give: that is an old-fashioned, effete benevolence. The 
new, the cold-blooded, is incomparably better: it never — 
to individual or to community — gives where it can sell. 
Your instincts have applied the rule to yourself; apply it 
to your fellow-man.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Richling, promptly, “ that’s another thing. 
If 8 not my business to apply it to them.” 

“It is your business to apply it to them. You have 
no right to do less.” 

“ And what wiU men say of me? At least—not that, 
but” — 

The Doctor pointed upward. * They will say, ‘ I 
knew thee, that thou art an hard man.’” His voice 
trembled “ But, Richling,” he resumed with fresh firm¬ 
ness, “ if you want to lead a long and useful life, — you 
lay you do, — you must take my advice ; you must deny 


**1 MUST BE CEIJEL ONLY TO BE KIND.” 293 

yourself for a while; you must shelve tliese fine notions 
for a time. I tell you once more, you must endeavor to 
reestablish your health as it was before — efore they 
locked you up, you know. When that is done you can 
commence right there if you choose; I wish you would 
Give the public — sell would be better, but it will hardly 
buy — a prison system less atrocious, less destructive of 
justice, and less promotive of crime and vice, than the 
one it has. By-the-by, I suppose you know that Raphael 
Ristofalo went to prison last night again?” 

Richling sprang to his feet. “ For what ? He hasn’t” — 
“ Yes, sir; he has discovered the man who robbed him, 
and has killed him.” 

Richling started away, but halted as the Doctor spoke 
again, rising from his seat and shaking out his legs. 

“ He’s not suffering any hardship. He’s shrewd, you 
know, — has made arrangements with the keeper by 
which he secures very comfortable quarters. The star- 
chamber, I think they call the room he is in. He’ll suffer 
very little restraint. Good-day I ” 

He turned, as Richling left, to get his own hat and 
gloves. “ Yes,” he thought, as he passed slowly down¬ 
stairs to his carriage, “ I have erred.” He was not only 
teaching, he was learning. To fight evil was not enough. 
People who wanted help for orphans did not come to him 
— they sent. They drew back from him as a child 
shrinks from a soldier. Even Alice, his buried Alice, 
had wept with delight when he gave her a smile, and 
trembled with fear at his frown. To fight evil is not 
enough. Everybody seemed to feel as though that were 
a war against himself. Oh for some one always to under¬ 
stand— never to fear — the frowning good intention of 
the lonely man! 


DB. SEVIBB. 


m 


j CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“PETTENT PRATE.” 

X T was about the time, in January, when clerks and 
correspondents were beginning to write ’59 without 
first getting it ’58, that Dr. Sevier, as one morning he ap¬ 
proached his oflSce, noticed with some grim amusement, 
standing among the brokers and speculators of Carondelet 
street, the baker, Reisen. He was earnestly conversing 
with and bending over a small, alert fellow, in a rakish 
beaver and very smart coat, with the blue flowers of 
modesty bunched saucily in one button-hole. 

Almost at the same moment Reisen saw the Doctor. 
He called his name aloud, and for all nis ungainly bulk 
would have run directly to the carriage in the middle of 
the street, only that the Doctor made believe not to see, 
and in a moment was out of reach. But when, two or 
three hours later, the same vehicle came, tipping some¬ 
what sidewise against the sidewalk at the Charity Hos¬ 
pital gate, and the Doctor stepped from it, there stood 
Reisen in waiting. 

“ Toctor,” he said, approaching and touching his hat, 
“ I like to see you a minudt, u9f you bleace, shtrict pri- 
fut.” 

They moved slowly down the unfrequented sidewalk, 
along the garden wall. 

“ Before you begin, Reisen, I want to ask you a ques¬ 
tion. I’ve noticed for a month past that Mr. Richling 
rides in your bread-carts alongside the drivers on their 


PEITENT PRATE. 


295 




'X)unds. Don’t you know you ought not to require such a 
thing as that from a person like Mr. Richling? Mr. 
Richling’s a gentleman, Reisen, and you make him mount 
up in those bread-carts, and Jump out every few minutes 
to deliver bread I ” 

The Doctor’s blood was not cold. 

“Veil, now I” drawled the baker, as the corners of 
his mouth retreated toward the back of his neck, “ end’t 
tat teh funn’est ting, ennahow! Vhy, tat iss yoost teh 
ferra ting fot I cornin’ to shpeak mit you apowdt udt! ” 
He halted and looked at the Doctor to see how this coin¬ 
cidence struck him; but the Doctor merely, moved on. 
“/toant make him too udt,” he continued, starting 
again; “he cumps to me sindts apowdt two-o-o mundts 
aco — ven I shtill feelin’ a liddle veak, yet, fun teh yalla- 
feewa — undt yoost paygs me to let um too udt. ‘ Mr. 
Richlun,’ sayss I to him, ‘ I toandt kin untershtayndt for 
vot you vawnts to too sich a ritickliss, IVIr. Richlun I ’ 
Ower he sayss, ‘ IVIr. Reisen,’ — he alvays callss me 
‘ Mister,’ undt tat iss one dting in puttickly vot I alvays 
tit li-i-iked apowdt Mr. Richlun, — ‘ Mr. Reisen,’ he sayss, 
‘ toandt you aysk me te reason, ower yoost let me co 
abate undt too udt! ’ Undt I voss a coin’ to kiff udt up, 
alretty ; ower ten cumps in Missess Reisen, — who iss a 
heap shmarter mayn as fot Reisen iss, I yoost tell you te 
ectseetly troot,— and she sayss, ‘ Reisen, you yoost tell 
Mr. Richlun, Mr. Richlun, you toadnt coin’ to too sich a 
ritickliss! ’ ” 

The speaker paused for effect. 

“ Undt ten Mr. Richlun, he talks!—Schweedt? — Oh 
yendlcmuns, toandt say nutting! ” The baker lifted up 
his palm and swung it down against his thigh with a blow 
that sent the flour out in a little cloud. “I tell you, 
Toctor Tseweer, ven tat mayn vawndts to too udt, he kis 


296 


DS. SEVIER. 


yoost talk te mo-ust like a Christun fun enna mayn 1 
nelfa he-ut in mine li-i-fe I ‘ Missess Reisen/ he sayss, 

‘ I vawndts to too udt pecauce I vawndte to too udt.’ 
Veil, how you coin’ to arg-y ennating eagval mit ISIr. 
Richlun? So teh upshodt iss he coes owdt in teh prate* 
cawts tistripputin’ te prate ! ” Reisen threw his arms far 
behind him, and bowed low to his listener. 

Dr. Sevier had learned him well enough to beware of 
interrupting him, lest when he resumed it would be at the 
beginning again. He made no answer, and Reisen went 
on: — 

“Bressently”— He stopped his slow walk, brought 
forward both palms, shrugged, dropped them, bowed, 
clasped them behind him, brought the left one forward, 
dropped it, then the right one, dropped it also, frowned, 
smiled, and said : — 

“Bressently”—then a long silence—“ effrapotty in 
my etsteplitchmendt ” — another long pause—“ hef 
yoost teh same ettechmendt to Mr. Richlun,” — another 
interval, — tey hef yoost tso much effection fur him ”— 
another silence — “ass tey hef ” — another, with a smile 
this time — “fur — te teffle himpselluf ! ” An oven 
opened in the baker’s face, and emitted a softly rattling 
expiration like that of a bursted bellows. The Doctor 
neither smiled nor spoke. Reisen resumed: — 

“ I seen udt. I seen udt. Ovver I toandtcoult unter- 
shtayndt udt. Ovver one tay cumps in mine little poy in 
to me fen te pakers voss all ashleep, ‘Pap-a, Mr. 
Richlun sayss you shouldt come into teh offiiss.’ I 
knmpt in. Mr. Richlun voss tare, shtayndting yoost so 
— yoost so — py teh shtofe ; undt, Toctor Tseweer, 1 
yoost tell you te ectsectly troot, he toaldt in fife minudts — 
six minudts — seven minudts, udt may pe — undt shoadt 
me how effrapotty, high undt low, littie un(}t pick, Tom: 


PETTENT PRATE. 


297 


ff 


Tick, undt Harra, pin topping me sindts more Site 
years I ” 

The longest pause of all followed this disclosure. The 
baker had gradually backed the Dodtor up against the 
wall, spreading out the whole matter with his great palms 
turned now upward and now downward, the bulky 
contents of his high-waisted, barn-door trowsers now 
bulged out and now withdrawn, to be protruded yet more 
a moment later. He recommenced by holding out his 
down-turned hand some distance above the ground. 

“ I yoompt tot hoigh ! ” He blew his cheeks out, and 
rose a half-inch off his heels in recollection of the mighty 
leap. “Ovver Jilr. Richlun sayss,—he sayss, ‘Kip 
shtill, ]VIr. Reisen;' undt I kibt shtill.” 

The baker’s auditor was gradually drawing him back 
toward the hospital gate ; but he continued speaking: — 

“ Py undt py, vun tay, I kot somcting to say to Mr. 
Richlun^ yet. Undt I sendts vert to Mr. Richlun tat he 
shouldt come into teh offuss. He cumps in. ‘Mr. 
Richlun,’ I sayss, sayss I to him, ‘ LIr. Richlun, I kot 
udt! ’ ” The baker shook his finger in Dr. Sevier’s face. 
“ ‘ I kot udt, udt layst, Mr. Richlun I I yoost het a 
suspish*n sindts teh first tay fot I employedt you, ovver 
now I know I kot udt! ’ Veil, sir, he yoost turnun so rate 
ass a flennen shirt! — ‘JMr. Reisen,’ sayss he to me, 
‘ fot iss udt fot you kot?’ Undt sayss I to him, ‘Mr. 
Richlun, udt iss you ! Udt is you fot I kot I 

Dr. Sevier stood sphinx-like, and once more Reisen 
went on. 

“ ‘Yes, Mr. Richlun,”’ still addressing the Doctor as 
though he were his book-keeper, “ ‘ I yoost layin, on my 
pett effra nighdt—effra nighdt, vi-i-ite ava-a-ake I landl 
In apowdt a veek I make udt owdt ut layst tot you, Mr 


298 


DS* SJAVUSB* 


Riehlun/— I lookt urn shtraight in te eye, undt he lookl 
me shtraight te same,—‘ tot, Mr. Richlun, you^* sayss I, 
‘ not dtose fellehs fot pin py me sindts more ass fife 
yearss, put you, Mr. Richlun, iss teh mayn I —teh mayn 
fat I — kin trust I*** The baker’s middle parts bent out 
and his arms were drawn akimbo. Thus for ten seconds. 

“ ‘ Undt now, Mr. Richlun, do you kot teh shtrengdt 
for to shtart a noo pissness?’ — Pecause, Toctor, udt pin 
seem to me IVIr. Richlun kitten more undt more shecklun, 
undt toandt take tot meticine fot you kif um (ower he 
sayss he toos). So ten he sayss to me, ‘ Mister Reisen, 
I am yoost so sollut undt shtrong like a pilly-coat I Fot 
is teh noo pissness?’—‘Mr. Richlun,’ sayss I, ‘ye goin’ 
to make pettent prate I ’ ” 

“ What? ” asked the Doctor, frowning with impatience 
and venturing to interrupt at last. 

“ Pet-tent prate! ” 

The listener frowned heavier and shook his head. 

“ Pettent prate ! ” 

“ Oh ! patent bread ; yes. Well? ” 

“Yes,” said Reisen, “prate mate mit a mutchecn; 
mit copponic-essut kass into udt ploat pefore udt is paked. 
I pought teh pettent tiss mawning fun a yendleman in 
Garontelet shtreedt, alretty, naympt Kknox.” 

“And what have I to do with all this?” asked the 
Doetor, consulting his watch, as he had already done 
twice before. 

“Veil,” said Reisen, spreading his arms abroad, “I 
yoost taught you like to herr udt.” 

“But what do you want to see me for? What have 
you kept me all this time to tell me — or ask me ? ” 

“ Toctor,— you ugscooce me — ower ” — the baker 
held the Doctor by the elbow as he began to turn away 


PETTBNT PRATE. 


298 


« 


— “ Toctor Tseweer,”—the great face lighted up with a 
smile, the large body doubled partly together, and the 
broad left hand was held ready to smite the thigh,— 
“ you shouldt see Mr. Kichlun ven he fowndt owdt udt is 
goin’ to lower teh price of prate! 1 taught he iss gois* Ic 
ki^s Missisfli Beisea I ** 


DB. SETIBB. 


m 


CHAPTER XL. 


8WEET BELLS JANGLED. 


HOSE who knew New Orleans just before the cirD 



war, even though they saw it only along its river¬ 
front from the deck of some steam-boat, may easily recall 
a large sign painted high up on the side of the old ‘ ‘ Tri¬ 
angle Building,” which came to view through the dark 
web of masts and cordage as one drew near St. Mary’i 
Market. “ Steam Bakery ” it read. And such as were 
New Orleans householders, or by any other chance en¬ 
joyed the experience of making their way in the early 
morning among the hundreds of baskets that on hundreds 
of elbows moved up and down along and across the quaint 
gas-lit arcades of any of the market-houses, must re¬ 
member how, about this time or a little earlier, there 
began to appear on one of the tidiest of bread-stalls in 
each of these market-houses a new kind of bread. It was 
a small, densely compacted loaf of the size and shape of 
a badly distorted brick. When broken, it divided into 
layers, each of which showed — “ teh bprindt of teh 
kkneading-mutcheen,” said Reisen to Narcisse; “ yoost 
like a tsoda crecker! ” 

These two persons had met by chance at a coffee-stand 
one beautiful summer dawn in one of the markets, — the 
Tr6in6, most likely,— where, perched on high stools at a 
zinc-covered counter, with the smell of fresh blood on the 
right and of stale fish on the left, they had finished half 


SWEET BELLS JANGLED. 


m 

their CLp of cafe au lait before they awoke to tLe exhil¬ 
arating knowledge of each other’s presence. 

“ Yesseh,” said Narcisse, “ now since you ’ave we- 
mawk the mention of it, I think T have saw that va’iety 
of bwead.” 

“ Oh, surely you poundt to a-seedt udt. A uckly little 
prown dting ” — 

“ But cook well,” said Narcisse. 

“Yayss,” drawled the baker. It was a fact that he 
had to admit. 

“An’ good flou’,” persisted the Creole. 

“Yayss,” said the smiling manufacturer. He could 
not deny that either. 

“ An’ honness weight! ” said Narcisse, planting his 
empty cup in his saucer, with the energy of his asserva- 
tion; “ an’, Llr. Bison, thass a ve’y seldom thing.” 

“ Yayss,” assented Reisen, “ ower tat prate is mighdy 
dtry, undt shtickin’ in teh dtroat.” 

“ No, seh I ” said the flatterer, with a generous smile. 
“ Egscuse me — I diffeh fum you. ’Tis a beaucheouz 
bwead. Yesseh. And eve’y loaf got the name beauche- 
ouzly pwint on the top, with ‘ Patent ’ — sich an’ sich a 
time. ’Tis the tooth, Mr. Bison, I’m boun’ to congwatu- 
late you on that bwead.” 

“ 0-o-oh! tat iss not mine prate,” exclaimed the baker. 
“Tat iss not fun mine etsteplitchmendt. Oh, no! Tatt 
iss te prate — I’m yoost dtellin’ you — tat iss te prate fun 
tat fellah py teh Sunk-Mary’s Morrikit-house ! Tat’s teh 
shteam prate.’ I to-undt know forvot effrapotty puys tat 
prate ennahow! Ower you yoost vait dtill you see mine 
prate! ” 

“Mr. Bison,” said Narcisse, “Mr. Bison,” — he had 
been trying to stop him and get in a word of his own, 
but could not,—“I don’t know if you —Mr.—-Mr 


302 


DR. SEVIER. 


Bison, in fact, you din understood me. Can that b« 
possible that you din notiz that I was speaking in my 
i^ony about that bwead ? Why, of 00^86 I Thass juz my 
i^onious cuztom, Mr. Bison. Thass one thing I dunno if 
you ’ave notiz about that ‘ steam bwead,’ IMr. Bison, but 
with me that bwead always stick in my tb’oat; an’ yet 1 
kin swallow mose anything, in fact. No, Mr. Bison, yo’ 
bwead is deztyned to be the bwead; and I tell you how 
’tis with me, I juz gladly eat yo’ bwead eve’y time I kin 
git it! Mr. Bison, in fact you don’t know me ve’y in- 
fimitly, but you will oblige me ve’y much indeed to baw 
me five doUahs till tomaw — save me fum d’awing a 
check I” 

The German thrust his hand slowly and deeply into his 
pocket. “lalvayss like to oplyche a yendleman,” — he 
smiled benignly, drew out a toothpick, and added, — 
“ ower I niwch bporrah or lend to ennabodda.” 

“ An’ then,” said Narcisse, promptly, “ ’tis imposs’ble 
faw anybody to be offended. Thass the bess way, ISIr. 
Bison.” 

“Yayss,” said the baker, “I tink udt iss.” As they 
were parting, he added: “ Ower you vait dtill you see 
mine prate! ” 

“ m do it, seh! —And, Mr. Bison, you muzn’t think 
anything about that, my not hawing that five dollars fum 
you, Mr. Bison, because that don’t make a bit o’ dif’ence ; 
an’ thass one thing I like about you, Mr. Bison, you 
don’t baw yo’ money to eve’y Dick, Tom, an’ Hawwy, do 
you?” 

“ No, I dtoandt. Ower, you yoost vait ” — 

And certainly, after many vexations, difficulties, and 
delays, that took many a pound of flesli from Rcisen’a 
form, the pretty, pale-brown, fragrant wliite loaves of 
‘‘aerated bread” that issued from the Star Bakery in 


SWEET BELLS JANGLED. 


303 


Benjamin street wore something pleasant to see, though 
they did not lower the price. 

Richling’s old liking for mechanical apparatus came 
Into p\ay. He only, in the establishment, thoroughly 
understood the new process, and could be certain of daily, 
or rather nightly, uniform results. He even made one or 
two slight improvements in it, which he contemplated 
with ecstatic pride, and long accounts of which he wrote 
to Mary. 

In a generous and innocent way Reisen grew a little 
jealous of his accountant, and threw himself into his 
business as he had not done before since he was young, 
and in the ardor of his emulation ignored utterly a state 
of health that was no better because of his great length 
and breadth. 

“ Toctor Tseweer I ” he said, as the physician appeared 
one day in his oflSce. “ Veil, now, I yoost pet finfty 
tawUars tat iss Mississ Reisen sendts for you tat I’m 
sick I Ven udt iss not such a dting ! ” He laughed im¬ 
moderately. ‘‘Ovver I’m gladt you come, Toctor, enna- 
how, for you pin yoost in time to see ever’ting runnin’. 
I vish you yoost come undt see udt! ” He grinned in 
his old, broad way; but his face was anxious, and his 
bared arms were lean. He laid his hand on the Doctor’s 
arm, and then jerked it away, and tried to blow off the 
floury print of his fingers. “Come!” He beckoned. 
“ Come ; I show you somedting putiful. Toctor, I vizh 
you come! ” 

The Doctor yielded. Richling had to be called upon 
at last to explain the hidden parts and processes. 

“It’s yoost lilje putt’n’ te shpirudt into teh potty,” 
gaid the laughing German. “ Now, tat prate kot life in 
adt yoost teh same like your own selluf, Toctor. Tot 
prate kot yoost so much sense ass Reisen kot. Orv sr, 


304 


DR. SEVIER. 


Toetoi — Toctoi ” — the Doctor was giving bis attentioc 
to Richling, who was explaining something — “ Toctor, 
toandt you come here uxpectin’ to see nopoty sick, less-n 
udt iss IVIr. Richlun.” He caught Richling’s face roughly 
between his hands, and then gave his back a caressing 
thwack. “ Toctor, vot you dtink? Ve goin' teh run prate- 
cawts mit copponic-essut kass. Tispense mit hawses I ” 
He laughed long but softly, and smote Richling again as 
the three walked across the bakery yard abreast. 

“Well?” said Dr. Sevier to Richling, in a low tone, 
“ always working toward the one happy end.” 

Richling had only time to answer with his eyes, when 
the baker, always clinging close to them, said, “Yes ; if 
I toandt look oudt yet, he pe rich pefore Reisen.” 

The Doctor looked steadily at Richling, stood still, and 
said, “Don’t hurry.” 

But Richling swung playfully half around on his heel, 
dropped his glance, and jerked his head sidewise, as one 
who neither resented the advice nor took it. A minute 
later he drew from his breast-pocket a small, thick letter 
stripped of its envelope, and handed it to the Doctor, 
who put it into his pocket, neither of them speaking. The 
action showed practice. Reisen winked one eye labo¬ 
riously at the Doctor and chuckled. 

“See here, Reisen,” said the Doctor, “I want you to 
pack your trunk, take the late boat, and go to Biloxi or 
Pascagoula, and spend a month fishing and sailing.” 

^ The baker pushed his fingers up under his hat, scratched 
his head, smiled widely, and pointed at Richling. 

“ Sendt him.” 

The Doctor went and sat down with Reisen, and used 
every form of inducement that could be brought to bear; 
but the German had but one answer: Richling, Richling, 
not he. The Doctor >ft a prescription, which the baker 


SWEET BELLS JANGLED. 


305 


took until he found it was making him sleep while Rich- 
ling was at work, whereupon he amiably threw it out of 
hie window. 

It was no surprise to Dr. Sevier that Richling came to 
him a few days later with a face all trouble. 

How are you, Richling? How’s Reisen?” 

Doctor,” said Richling, “I’m afraid Mr. Reisen 
is”— Their eyes met. 

“ Insane,” said the Doctor. 

“Yes.” 

“Does his wife know whether he has ever had such 
symptoms before — in his life?” 

“ She says he hasn’t.” 

“ I suppose you know his pecuniary condition perfectly; 
has he money ? ” 

“ Plenty.” 

“ He’ll not consent to go away anywhere, I suppose, 
will he?” 

“ Not an inch.” 

“ There’s but one sensible and proper course, Richling; 
he must be taken at once, by force if necessary, to a 
first-class insane hospital.” 

“Why, Doctor, why? Can’t we treat him better at 
home ? ” 

The Doctor gave his head its well-known swing of 
impatience. “If you want to be criminally in error try 
that! ” 

“ I don’t want to be in error at all,” retorted Richling. 

“Then don’t lose twelve hours that you can save, but 
send him off as soon as process of court will let you.” 

“ Will you come at once and see him?” asked Richling, 
nsing up. 

“Yes, I’ll be there nearly as soon as you will. Stop; 
you had better ride with me; I have something special to 


306 


DR. 8EVIEB. 


saj; /’ As the carriage started off, the Doctor leaned bach 
in its cushions, folded his arms, and took a long, medi¬ 
tative breath. Richling glanced at him and said : — 

“ We’re both thinking of the same person.” 

“Yes,” replied the Doctor; “and the same day, too, 
I suppose ; the first day I ever saw her ; the only other 
time that we ever got into this carriage together. Hmm I 
hnom ! With what a fearful speed time flies! ” 

“ Sometimes,” said the yearning husband, and apolo¬ 
gized by a laugh. The Doctor grunted, looked out of 
the carriage window, and, suddenly turning, asked: — 
“Do you know that Reisen instructed his wife about 
six months ago, in the event of his death or disability, to 
place all her interests in your hands, and to be guided by 
your advice in everything ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Richling, “ he can’t do that! He 
should have asked my consent.” 

“ I suppose he knew he wouldn’t get it. He’s a cun¬ 
ning simpleton.” 

“But, Doctor, if you knew this”— Richling ceased 
“Six months ago. Why didn’t I tell you?” said the 
physician. “ I thought I would, Richling, though Reisen 
bade me not, when he told me ; I made no promise. But 
time, that you think goes slow, was too fast for me.” 

“ I shall refuse to serve,” said Richling, soliloquizing 
aloud. “Don’t you see. Doctor, the delicacy of the 
position ? ” 

“Yes, I do; but you don’t. Don’t you see it would be 
just as delicate a matter for you to refuse?” 

Richling pondered, and presently said, quite slowly : — 
“ It will look like coming down out of the tree to catch 
the apples as tliey fall,” he said. “ Why,” he added 
with impatience, “ it lays me wide open to suspicion and 
slander.” 


SWEET BELLS JANGLED. 


307 


“Does it?” asked the Doctor, heartlessly. “There’% 
nothing remarkable in that. Did any one ever occupy a 
responsible position without those conditions?” 

“ But, you know, I have made some unscrupulous 
enemies by defending Reisen’s interests.” 

“ Um-hmm; what did you defend them for?” 

Richling was about to make a reply; but the Doctor 
wanted none. “Richling,” he said, “the most of men 
have burrows. They never let anything decoy them so 
far from those burrows but they can pop into them at a 
moment’s notice. Do you take my meaning?” 

“ Oh, yes! ” said Richling, pleasantly ; “ no trouble to 
understand you this time. I’ll not run into any burrow 
Just now. rU face my duty and think of Mary.” 

He laughed. 

“ Excellent pastime,” responded Dr. Sevier. 

They rode on in silence. 

“As to ”— began Richling again, r— “ as to such matters 
as these, once a man confronts the question candidly, 
there is really no room, that I can see, for a man to 
choose: a man, at least, who is always guided by con¬ 
science >” 

“ If there were such a man,” responded the Doctor. 

“ True,” said John. 

“ But for common stuff, such as you and I are made of, 
it must sometimes be terrible.” 

“ I dare say,” said Richling. “ It sometimes requires 
cold blood to choose aright.” 

“ As cold as granite,” replied the other. 

They arrived at the bakery. 

“ O Doctor,” said Mrs. Reisen, proffering her hand as 
he entered the house, “ my poor hussband iss crazy I ” She 
dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She was a 
large woman, with a round, red face and triple chi:i, but 


308 


DR. SE flER. 


with a more intelligent look and a better command of 
English than Reisen. “ Doctor, I want you to cure him 
ass quick ass possible.’’ 

“Well, madam, of course; but will you do what I 
say?” 

“ I will, certain shure. I do it yust like you tellin* 
me.” 

The Doctor gave her such good advice as became a 
courageous physician. 

A f*;jok of dismay came upon her. Her mouth dropped 
open. “ Oh, no. Doctor! ” She began to shake her head. 
“ m never do tha-at; oh, no; I’ll never send my poor 
hussband to the crazy-house ! Oh, no, sir; I’ll do not such 
a thing! ” There was some resentment in her emotion. 
Her nether lip went up like a crying babe’s, and she 
breathed through her nostrils audibly. 

“ Oh, yes, I know ! ” said the poor creature, turning her 
face away from the Doctor’s kind attempts to explain, and 
lifting it incredulously as she talked to the wall, — “I 
know all about it. I’m not a-goin’ to put no sich a disgrace 
on my poor hussband; no, indeed! ” She faced around 
suddenly and threw out her hand to Richling, who leaned 
against a door twisting a bit of string between his thumbs. 
“Why, he wouldn’t go, nohow, even if I gave my consents. 
You caynt coax him out of his room yet. Oh, no. Doctor I 
It’s my duty to keep him wid me an’ try to cure him first 
a little while here at home. That aint no trouble to me ; 
I don’t never mind no trouble if I can be any help to my 
hussband.” She addressed the wall again. 

“Well, madam,” replied the physician, with unusual 
tenderness of tone, and looking at Richling while ne 
^poke, “of course you’ll do as you think best.” 

“Oh I my poor Reisen I ” exclaimed the wife, wringing 
ner hands. 


SWEET BELLS JANGLED. 


309 


“ Yes,” said the physician, rising and looking out of 
the window, “ T am afraid it w^ill be ruin to Reisen.” 

“ No, it won’t be such a thing,” said ISIrs. Reisen, turn¬ 
ing this way and that in her chair as the physician moved 
from place to place. “ Mr. Richlin’,” — turning to him, 
— “ Mr. Richlin’ and me kin run the business yust so 
good as Reisen.” She shifted her distressed gaze back 
and forth from Richling to the Doctor. The latter turned 
to Richling: — 

“ m have to leave this matter to you.” 

Richling nodded. 

“ Where is Reisen?” asked the Doctor. “ In his own 
room, upstairs?” The three passed through n ianei 
door. 


310 


DR. SEVIER. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


mRAaE. 


HIS spoils some of your arrangements, doesn’t it? 



asked Dr. Sevier of Richling, stepping again into hit 
caniage. He had already said the kind things, concerning 
Eeisen, that physicians commonly say when they have little 
hope. “"Were you not counting on an early visit to 
Milwaukee ? ” 

Richling laughed. 

“That illusion has been just a little beyond reach for 
months.” He helped the Doctor shut his carriage-door. 

“ But now, of course — ” said the physician. 

“ Of course it’s out of the question,” replied Richling ; 
and the Doctor drove away, with the young man’s face in 
his mind bearing an expression of simple emphasis that 
pleased him much. 

Late at night Richling, in his dingy little office, unlocked 
a drawer, drew out a plump package of letters, and began 
to read their pages, — transcripts of his wife’s heart, pages 
upon pages, hundreds of precious lines, dates crowding 
closely one upon another. Often he smiled as his eyes ran 
to and fro, or drew a soft sigh as he turned the page, and 
looked behind to see if any one had stolen in and was read¬ 
ing over his shoulder. Sometimes his smile broadened; 
he lifted his glance from the sheet and fixed it in pleas¬ 
ant revery on the blank wall before him. Often the lines 
were entirely taken up with mere utterances of affection. 
Now and then they were all about little Alice, who had 


MIRAGB. 


311 


fretted all the night before, her gams being swollen and 
tender on the upper left side near the ^ront; or who had 
fallen violently in love with the house-dog, by whom, in 
turn, the sentiment was reciprocated; or whose eyes were 
really getting bluer and bluer, and her cheeks fatter and 
fatter, and who seemed to fear nothing that had existence. 
And the reader of the lines would rest one elbow on the 
desk, shut his eyes in one hand, and see the fair young head 
of the mother drooping tenderly over that smaller head in 
her bosom. Sometimes the tone of the lines was hopefully 
grave, discussing in the old tentative, interrogative key 
the future and its possibilities. Some pages were given 
to reminiscences, — recollections of all the droll things and 
all the good and glad things of the rugged past. Every 
here and there, but especially where the lines drew toward 
the signature, the words of longing multiplied, but always 
full of sunshine; and just at the end of each letter love 
spurned its restraints, and rose and overflowed with sweet 
confessions. 

Sometimes these re-read letters did Richling good; 
not always. Maybe he read them too often. It was 
only the very next time that the Doctor's carriage stood 
before the bakery that the departing physician turned 
before he reentered the vehicle, and — whatever Richling 
had been saying to him — said abruptly : — 

“ Richling, are you falling out of love with your work ? ” 

“Why do you ask me that?” asked the young man, 
coloring. 

“ Because I no longer see that Joy of deliverance with 
which you entered upon this humble calling. It seems to 
have passed like a lost perfume, Richling. Have you .el 
your toil become a task once more ? ” 

Richling dropped his eyes and pushed the groun I with 
the toe of his boot. 


312 


DK. SEVIEB. 


“ I didnH want you to find that out, Doctor.” 

“ I was afraid, from the first, it would be so,” said the 
l)hysician. 

“ 1 don't see why you were.” 

“ Well, I saw that the zeal with which you first laid hold 
of your work was not entirely natural. It was good, 
but it was partly artificial, — the more credit to you on 
that account. But I saw that by and by you would have 
to keep it up mainly by your sense of necessity and duty. 

‘ That’ll be tiie pinch,’ I said; and now I see it’s come. 
For a long time you idealized the work; but at last its 
real dulness has begun to overcome you, and you’re 
discontented — and with a discontentment that you can’t 
justify, can you ? ” 

“ But I feel myself growing smaller again.” 

“ No wonder. Why, Ridding, it’s the discontent 
makes that.” 

“Oh, no! The discontent makes me long to expand. 
I never had so much ambition before. But what can I 
do here? Why, Doctor, I ought to be — I might be ”— 

The physician laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. 

“ Stop, Richling. Drop those phrases and give us a 
healthy ‘ I am,’ and ‘ I must,’ and ‘ I will.’ Don’t — 
don't be like so many ! You’re not of the mady. Rich- 
ling, in the first illness in which I ever attended your 
wife, she watched her chance and asked me privately — 
implored me — not to let her die, for your sake. I don’t 
suppose that tortures could have wrung from her, even 
if she realized it, — which I doubt, — the true reason. 
But don’t you feel it ? It was because your moral nature 
needs her so badly. Stop—let me finish. You need 
Mary back here now to hold you square to your course 
by the tremendous power of her timid little ‘ Don’t yow 
think ? ’ and ‘ Doesn’t it seem ? ’ ” 


MIBAGE. 


313 


“ Doctor,” replied Richling, with a smile of expostula* 
tion, “ you touch one’s pride.” 

“ Certainly I do. You’re willing enough to say that 
yon love her and long for her, but not that your moral 
manhood needs her. And yet isn’t it true ? ” 

“ It sha’n’t be true,” said Richling, swinging a playful 
fist. “ ‘ Forewarned is forearmed; ’ I’ll not allow it. , 
I’m man enough for that.” He laughed, with a touch of 
pique. 

“Richling,” — the Doctor laid a finger against his 
companion’s shoulder, preparing at the same time to leave 
him, — “don’t be misled. A man who doesn’t need a 
wife isn’t fit to have one.” 

“ Why, Doctor,” replied Richling, with sincere amia¬ 
bility, “ you’re the man of all men I should have picked 
out to prove the contrary.” 

“ No, Richling, no. I wasn’t fit, and God took her.” 

In accordance with Dr. Sevier’s request Richling es¬ 
sayed to lift the mind of the baker’s wife, in the matter 
of her husband’s afl3iction, to that plane of conviction 
where facts, and not feelings, should become her motive ; 
and when he had talked until his head reeled, as though 
he had been blowing a fire, and she would not blaze for 
all his blowing—would be governed only by a stupid 
sentimentality; and when at length she suddenly flashed 
up in silly anger and accused him of interested motives; 
and when he had demanded instant retraction or release 
from her employment; and when she humbly and affec¬ 
tionately apologized, and was still as deep as ever in 
hopeless, clinging sentimentalisms, repeating the dictuma 
of her simple and ignorant German neighbors and inti¬ 
mates, and calling them in to argue with him, th<j feeling 
that the Doctor’s exhortation had for the moment driven 
away came back with more force than ever, and he could 


DK. 6ETIER 


ai4 

only turn again to his ovens and account-books with a 
feeling of annihilation. 

“ Where am I? What am I? ” Silence was the only 
answer. The separation that had once been so sharp a 
pain had ceased to cut, and was bearing down upon him 
now with that dull, grinding weight that does the damage 
in us. 

Presently came another development: the lack of 
money, that did no harm while it was merely kept in the 
mind, settled down upon the heart. 

“ It may be a bad thing to love, but it’s a good thing 
to have,” he said, one day, to the little rector, as this 
friend stood by him at a corner of the high desk where 
Richling was posting his ledger. 

“ But not to seek,” said the rector. 

Richling posted an item and shook his head doubtingly. 

“ That depends, I should say, on how much one seeks 
it, and how much of it he seeks.” 

“ No,” insisted the clergyman. Richling bent a look 
of inquiry upon him, and he added : — 

“ The principle is bad, and you know it, Richling. 
‘Seek ye first’—you know the text, and the assurance 
that follows with it — ‘all these things shall be 
added’” — 

“ Oh, yes; but still ” — 

“‘But still!’” exclaimed the little preacher; “why 
must everybody say ‘ but stiU ’ ? Don’t you see that that 
‘ but still ’ is the refusal of Christians to practise Chris¬ 
tianity ? ” 

Richling looked, but said nothing; and his friend hoped 
the word had taken effect. But Richling was too deeply 
bitten to be cured by one or two good sayings. After a 
moment he said: — 

“ I used to wonder to see nearly everybody stniggling 


ftOBAGfi. 


315 


to be rich, but I don’t now. 1 don’t justity it, but I 
understand it. It’s flight from oblivion. It’s the natural 
longing to be seen and felt.” 

“Why isn’t it enough to be felt?” asked the other. 
“Here, you make bread and sell it. A thousand people 
eat it from your hand every day. Isn’t that some¬ 
thing ? ” 

“ Yes ; but it’s all the bread. The bread’s everything ; 
I’m nothing. I’m not asked to do or to be. I may exist 
nr not; there will be bread all the same. I see my 
remark pains you, but I can’t help it. You’ve never tried 
the thing. You’ve never encountered the mild ccntempt 
that people in ease pay to those who pursue the ‘ indus¬ 
tries.’ You’ve never suffered the condescension of rank 
to the ranks. You don’t know the smart of being only 
an arithmetical quantity in a world of achievements and 
possessions.” 

“ No,” said the preacher, “ maybe I haven’t. But I 
should say you are just the sort of man that ought to 
come through all that unsoured and unhurt. Richling,” — 
he put on a lighter mood, — “ you’ve got a moral indiges¬ 
tion. You’ve accustomed yourself to the highest motives, 
and now these new notions are not the highest, and you 
know and feel it. They don’t nourish you. They don’t 
make you .happy. Where are your old sentiments? 
What’s become of them?” 

“Ah!” said Richling, “I got them from my wife. 
An d the supply’s nearly run out.” 

“ Get it renewed 1 ” said the little man, quickly, putting 
on his hat and extending a farewell hand. “ Excuse me 
for saying so. I didn’t intend it; I dropped in to ask 
you again the name of that Italian whom you visit at the 
prison, — the man I promised you I’d go and talk to 
Yes—Ristofalo; that’s it. Good-by.” 


316 


DR. SEVIER. 


That night Richling wrote to his wife. What he wrote 
goes not down here ; but he felt as he wrote that his mood 
was not the right one, and when Mary got the letter she 
answered by first mail: — 

Will you not let me come to you? Is it not surely best? Say 
but the word, and Ill come. It will be the steamer to Chicago, 
railroad to Cairo, and a St. Louis boat to New Orleans. Alice will 
be both company and protection, and no burden at all. O my 
beloved husband! I am just ungracious enough to think, some days, 
that these times of separation are the hardest of all. When we 
were suffering sickness and hunger together — well, we were 
together. Darling, if you’ll just say come, I’ll come in an instant. 
Oh, how gladly 1 Surely, with what you tell me you’ve saved, and 
with your place so secure to you, can’t we venture to begin again? 
Alice and I can live with you in the bakery. O my husband I if 
you but say the word, a little time — a few days will bring us into 
your arms. And yet, do not yield to my impatience; I trust your 
wisdom, and know that what you decide will be best. Mother has 
been very feeble lately, as I have told you; but she seems to be 
improving, and now I see what I’ve half suspected for a long time, 
and ought to have seen sooner, that my husband — my dear, dear 
husband — needs me most; and I’m coming — I’m coming, John, 
if you’ll only say come. 

Your lovluf 


WflTOFALO AND THE RECTOB. 


317 


CHAl^'EIl XLIL 

RISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR. 

B e Richling’s feelings what they might, the Star Bakery 
shone in the retail firmament of the commercial heav¬ 
ens with new and growing brilliancy. There was scarcely 
time to talk even with the tough little rector who hovers 
on the borders of this history, and he might have become 
quite an alien had not Richling’s earnest, request made 
him one day a visitor, as we have seen him express his 
intention of being, in the foul corridors of the parish 
prison, and presently the occupant of a broken chair in 
the apartment apportioned to Raphael Ristofalo and two 
other prisoners. “ Easy little tasks you cut out for your 
friends,” said the rector to Richling when next they met. 
“ I got preached to — not to say edified. I’ll share my 
edification with you ! ” He told his experience. 

It was a sinister place, the prison apartment. The 
hand of Kate Ristofalo had removed some of its un¬ 
sightly conditions and disguised others; but the bounds 
of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor, still displayed, 
with oflScial unconcern, the grime and decay that is com- 
monlj thought good enough for men charged, rightly or 
wrongly, with crime. 

The clergyman’s chair was in the centre of the floor. 
Ristofalo sat facing him a little way off on the right. A 
youth of nineteen sat tipped against the wall on the left, 
and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirted young Irishman 
occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs across « 


318 


DB. SEVIEB. 


coraer of it and letting the other down to the floor. Ria 
tofalo remarked, in the form of polite acknowledgment 
that the rector had preached to the assembled inmates ol 
the prison on the Sunday previous. 

“Did I say anything that you thought was true?” 
asked the minister. 

The Italian smiled in the gentle manner that never 
failed him. 

“Didn’t listen much,” he said. He drew from a 
pocket of his black velveteen pantaloons a small crumpled 
tract. It may have been a favorite one with the clergy¬ 
man, for the youth against the wall produced its counter¬ 
part, and the man on the edge of the table lay back on 
his elbow, and, with an indolent stretch of the opposite 
arm and both legs, drew a third one from a tin cup that 
rested on a greasy shelf behind him. The Irishman held 
his between his fingers and smirked a little toward the 
floor. Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and 
touched the caption with one finger: “Mercy offered.” 

“Well,” asked the rector, pleasantly, “what’s the 
matter with that?” 

“ Is no use yeh. Wrong place—this prison.” 

“Um-hm,” said the tract-distributor, glancing down 
at the leaf and smoothing it on his knee while he took 
time to think. “ Well, why shouldn’t mercy be offered 
here ? ” 

“ No,” replied Ristofalo, still s miling ; “ ought offer 
justice first.” 

“ Mr. Preacher,” asked the young Irishman, bringing 
both legs to the front, and swinging them under the table, 
“ d'ye vote? ” 

“Yes; I vote.” 

“ D’ye call yerself a cidizen — with a cidizen’s rights 
an’ djuties ? ” 


RISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR. 


319 


“ I do.” 

“ That’s right.” There was a deep sea of insclence In 
the smooth-faced, red-eyed smile that accompanied the 
commendation. “And how manny times have ye bean 
in this prison?” 

“ I don’t know; eight or ten times. That rather beats 
you, doesn’t it?” 

Ristofalo smiled, the youth uttered a high rasping 
cackle, and the Irishman laughed the heartiest of all. 

“ A little,” he said ; “ a little. But nivver mind. Ye 
say ye’ve bin here eight or tin times; yes. Well, now, 
will I tell ye what I’d do afore and iver I’d kim back here 
ag’in, — if I was you now ? Will I tell ye ? ” 

“Well, yes,” replied the visitor, amiably; “I’d like to 
know.” 

“ Well, SUIT, I’d go to the mair of this city and to the 
judge of the criminal coort, and to the gov’ner of the 
Sta-ate, and to the ligislatur, if needs be, and I’d say, 
‘ Gintlemin, I can’t go back to that prison! There is 
more crimes a-being committed by the people outside ag’in 
the fellies in theyre than — than — than the — the fellies 
in theyre has committed ag’in the people ! I’m ashamed 
to preach theyre ! I’m afeered to do ud I ’ ” The speaker 
slipped off the table, upon his feet. “ ‘ There’s murrder a- 
goun’ on in theyre! There’s more murrder a-bein’ done 
in theyre nor there is outside ! Justice is a-bein’ murdered 
theyre ivery hour of day and night! ’ ” 

He brandished his fist with the last words, but dropped 
it at a glance from Ristofalo, and began to pace the floor 
along his side of the room, looking with a heavy-browed 
smile back and forth from one fellow-captive to the other. 
He waited till the visitor was about to speak, and then 
Interrupted, pointing at him suddenly: — 


320 


DR. SEVIER. 


“Ye’re a Prodez’n preacher I I’ll bet ye fifty dollar* 
ye hare a rich cherch I Full of leadin’ cidizens! ” 

“ You’re correct.” 

“Well, I’d go an’ — an’ — an’ I’d say, ‘ Dawn’t ye 
niwer ax me to go into that place ag’in a-pallaverin’ 
about mercy, until ye gid ud chaynged from the heU on 
earth it is to a house of justice, wheyre min gits the sin- 
tences that the coorts decrees I ’ I don’t complain in 
* here. He don’t complain,” pointing to Ristofalo ; “ye’ll 
niwer hear a complaint from him. But go look in that 
yaird! ” He threw up both hands with a grimace of 
disgust— “ Aw! ” — and ceased again, but continued his 
walk, looked at his fellows, and resumed: — 

“ I listened to yer sermon. I heerd ye talkin’ about 
the souls of uz. Do ye think ye kin make anny of thim 
min believe ye cayre for the souls of us whin ye do 
nahthing for the bodies that’s before yer eyes tlothed in 
rrags and stairved, and made to sleep on beds of brick 
and stone, and to receive a hundred abuses a day that 
was niwer intended to be a pairt of annybody’s sintince 
— and manny of’m not tried yit, an’ niwer a-goun’ to 
have anny thin’ proved ag’in’m ? How can ye come offerin’ 
uz merrcy ? For ye don’t come out o’ the tloister, like a 
poor Cat’lic priest or Sister. Ye come rright out o’ thp 
hairt o’ the community that’s a-committin’ more crimes 
ag’in uz in here than aU of us together has iver committed 
outside. Aw! -r- Bring us a better airticle of yer own 
justice ferst — I doan’t cayre how crool it is, so ut’s 
justice — anythin preach about God’s mercy. I’ll listen 
to ye.” 

Ristofalo had kept his eyes for the most of the time on 
the floor, smiling sometimes more and sometimes less. Now, 
however, he raised them and nodded to the clergyman. 
He approved all that had been said. The Iris hman wen< 


BISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR. 


32i 


And sat again on the table and swung his legs. The 
visitor was not allowed to answer before, and must 
answer now. He would have been more comfortable at 
the rectory. 

“My friend,” he began, “suppose, now, I should say 
that you are pretty nearly correct in everything youV 
said?” 

The prisoner, who, with hands grasping the table’s 
edge on either side of him, was looking down at his 
swinging brogans, simply lifted his lurid eyes without 
raising his head, and nodded. “It would be right,” he 
seemed to intimate, “ but nothing great.” 

“ And suppose I should say that I’m glad I’ve heard 
it, and that I even intend to make good use of it ? ” 

His hearer lifted his head, better pleased, but not 
without some betrayal of the distrust which a lower 
nature feels toward the condescensions of a higher. The 
preacher went on: — 

“Would you try to believe what I have to add to 
that?” 

“Yes, I’d try,” replied the Irishman, looking face¬ 
tiously from the youth to Ristofalo. But this time the 
Italian was grave, and turned his glance expectantly upon 
the minister, who presently replied: — 

“Well, neither my church nor the community has sent 
me here at all.” 

The Irishman broke into a laugh. 

, ‘‘ Did God send ye ? ” He looked again to his comrades, 

with an expanded grin. The youth giggled. The cler¬ 
gyman met the attack with serenity, waited a moment 
and then responded: — 

“ Well, in one sense, I don’t mind saying —-yes.” 

“Well,” said the Irishman, still full of mirth, and 


S22 


DR. SETTER. 


swinging his legs with fresh vigor, “ he’d aht to siat 
ye to the ligislatiir.” 

“I’m in hopes he will,” said the little rector; “but” 
— checking the Irishman’s renewed laughter — “ tell me 
why should other men’s injustice in here stop me from 
preaching God’s mercy?” 

“ Because it’s pairt your injustice! Ye io come from 
yer cherch, an’ ye do come from the community, an’ ye 
can't deny ud, an’ ye’d ahtn’t to be cornin’ in here with 
yer sweet tahk and yer eyes tight shut to the crimes that’s 
bein’ committed ag’in uz for want of an outcry against 
’em by you preachers an’ prayers an’ thract-disthributors.” 
The speaker ceased and nodded fiercely. Then a new 
thought occurred to him, and he began again abruptly: — 

“ Look ut here! Ye said in yer serrmon that as to 
Him” — he pointed through the broken ceiling — “we’re 
all criminals alike, didn’t ye ? ” 

“ I did,” responded the preacher, in a low tone. 

“ Yes,” said Ristofalo; and the boy echoed the same 
word. 

“Well, thin, what rights has some to be out an’ some 
to be in? ” 

“ Only one right that I know of,” responded the little 
man ; “ still that is a good one.” 

“ And that is — ? ” prompted the Irishman. 

“ Society’s right to protect itself.” 

“Yes,” said the prisoner, “to protect itself. Thin 
what right has it to keep a prison like this, where every 
man an’ woman as goes out of ud goes out a blacker 
devil, and cunninger devil, and a more dangerous devil, 
nor when he came in? Is that anny protection? Why 
shouldn’t such a prison tumble down upon the heads of 
thim as built it? Say.” 


RISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR. 


323 


“ I expect you’ll have to ask somebody else,” said the 
rector. He rose. 

“Ye’re not a-goun’ I” exclaimed the Irishman, in 
broad affectation of surprise. 

“Yes.” 

“Ah I come, now! Ye’re not goun’to be beat that 
a-way by a wild Mick o’ the woods?” He held himself 
ready for a laugh. 

“ No, I’m coming back,” said the smiling clergyman, 
and the laugh came. 

“ That’s right! But ” — as if the thought was a sudden 
one — “I’ll be dead by thin, wilin’t I? Of coorse I 
will.” 

“ Yes?” rejoined the clergyman. “ How’s that? ” 

The Irishman turned to the Italian. 

“Mr. Ristofalo, we’re a-goin to the pinitintiary, aint 
we?” 

Ristofalo nodded. 

“Of coorse we air! Ah! Mr. Preechur, that’s the 
^lace! ” 

“ Worse than this?” 

“Worse? Oh, no! It’s better. This is slow death, 
but that’s quick and short — and sure. If it don’t git ye 
in five year*, ye’re ar allygatur. This place? It’s heavea 
tx)nd!” 


DK. SSYISB. 


BU 


CHAl^TER XLm. 

SHALL SHE COME OB STAY? 

13ICHLING read Mary’s letter through three times witU' 
JL V out a smile. The feeling that he had prompted the 
missive —that it was partly his — stood between him and 
a tumult of gladness. And yet when he closed his eyes he 
could see Mary, all buoyancy and laughter, spurning his 
claim to each and every stroke of the pen. It was all 
hers, all! 

As he was slowly folding the sheet Mrs. Eeisen came 
in upon him. It was one of those ’excessively warm 
spring evenings that sometimes make New Orleans fear it 
will have no May. The baker’s wife stood with her 
immense red hands thrust into the pockets of an expansive 
pinafore, and her three double chins glistening with 
perspiration. She bade her manager a pleasant good' 
evening. 

Richling inquired how she had left her husband. 

“Kviet, Mr. Richlin’, kviet. Mr. Richlin’, I pelief 
Reisen kittin petter. If he don’t gittin’ better, how corns 
he’ss every day a little more kvieter, and sit* still and 
don’t say nutting to nobody?” 

“ Mrs. Reisen, my wife is asking me to send for her ” — 
Richling gave the folded letter a little shake as he held it 
by one corner — “to come down here and live again.” 

“ Now, Mr. Richlin’?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, I will shwearl” She dropped into a seat 


SHALL SHE COME OU STAY? 


325 


“ Bight in de bekinning o* summer time! Veil, veil, 
veil! And you told me Mrs. Richliug is a sentsible 
voman I Veil, I don’t belief dat I efer see a young 
voman w’at aint de pickcst kind o’ fool apowt her buss- 
bandt ^ Veil, veil! — And she cornin’ down heah n* 
choost kittin’ all your money shpent, ’n’ den her mudter 
kittin’ vorse ’n’ she got ’o go pack akin! ” 

“ Why, Mrs. Reisen,” exclaimed Richling, warmly, 
“ you speak as if you didn’t want her to come.” He con¬ 
trived to smile as he finished. 

“ Veil, — of— course ! You don’t vaut her to come, 
do you ? ” 

Richling forced a laugh. 

“ Seems to me ’twould be natural if I did, Mrs. Reisen. 
Didn’t the preacher say, when we were married, ‘ Let no 
man put asunder ’ ? ” 

“ Oh, now, Mr. Richlin’, dere aindt nopotty a-koin* to 
put you under! — ’less’n it’s your vife. Vot she want to 
come down for ? Don’t I takin’ koot care you ? ” There 
was a tear in her eye as she went out. 

An hour or so later the little rector dropped in. 

“ Richling, I came to see if I did any damage the last 
time I was here. My own words worried me.” 

“ You were afraid,” responded Richling, “ that I would 
understand you to recommend me to send for my wife.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I didn’t understand yon so.” 

“ WeU, my mind’s relieved.” 

“ Mine isn’t,” said Richling, He laid down his pen 
and gathered his fingers around one knee. “Why 
fhouldn’t I send for her?” 

“ You will, some day.” 

“ But I mean now.” 

The clergyman shook his head pleasantly. 


DR. SEVIER. 


a2f> 

“ I don’t think that’s what you mean.” 

“ Well, let that pass. I know what I do mean. 1 
mean to get out of this business. I’ve lived long enough 
with these savages.” A wave of his hand indicated the 
ilfhoXe personnel of the bread business. 

“ I would try not to mind their savageness, Richling,” 
said the little preacher, slowly. “ The best of us are onl^ 
savages hid under a harness. If we’re not, we’ve some¬ 
how made a loss. Richling looked at him with amuaed 
astonishment, but he persisted. “ I’m in earnest! We’ve 
had something refined out of us that we shouldn’t have 
parted with. Now, there’s Mrs. Reisen. I like her. 
She’s a good woman. If the savage can stand you, why 
can’t you stand the savage ? ” 

“ Yes, true enough. Yet— well, I must get out of this, 
anyway.” 

The little man clapped him on the shoulder. 

Climb out. See here, you Milwaukee man,” — he 
pushed Richling playfully,— “what are you doing with 
these Southern notions of ours about the ‘ yoke of menial 
service,’ anyhow?” 

“ I was not born in Milwaukee,” said Richling. 

“ And you’ll not die with these notions, either,” retorted 
the other. “ Look here, I am going. Good-by. You’ve 
got to get rid of them, you know, before your wife comes. 
I’m glad you are not going to send for her now.” 

“ I didn’t say I wasn’t.” 

“ I wouldn’t.” 

“ Oh, you don’t know what you’d do,” said Richling. 

The little preacher eyed him steadily for a moment, and 
then slowly returned to where he still sat holding his 
knee. 

They had a long talk in very quiet tones. At the end 
the rector asked: — 


SHALL SHE 00MB OK STAY? 


327 


“ Didn't you once meet Dr. Sevier’s two nieces — at 
his house ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Richling. 

“ Do you remember the one named Laura? — the dark, 
flashing one ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ tVell, — oh, pshaw I I could tell you something 
funny, but I don’t care to do it.” 

What he did not care to tell was, that she had ^ romised 
him five years before to be his wife any day when he 
should say the word. In all that time, and this very 
night, one letter, one line almost, and he could have ended 
his waiting ; but he was not seeking his own happiness. 

They smiled together. “ Well, good-by again. Don’t 
think I’m always going to persecute you with my solici¬ 
tude.” 

“ I’m not worth it, ” said Richling, slipping slowly 
down from his high stool and letting the little man out 
into the street. 

A little way down the street some one coming out of a 
dark alley just in time to confront the clergyman extended 
a hand in salutation. 

“ Good-evenin’, Mr. Blank.” 

He took the hand. It belonged to a girl of eighteen, 
bareheaded and barefooted, holding in the other hand a 
small oil-can. Her eyes looked steadily into his. 

“ You don’t know me,” she said, pleasantly. 

“ Why, yes, now I remember you. You’re Maggie.’' 

“Yes,” replied the girl. “Don’t you recollect — in 
the mission-school ? Don’t you recollect you married me 
and Larry? That’s two years ago.” She almost laughed 
out with pleasure. 

“ And where’s Larry? ” 

“Why, don’t you recollect? He’s on the 8 lor*P' 0 ’-WRr 


328 


DR. SEVIER. 


Preble Then she added more gravely: “I aint seen 
him in twenty months. But I know he*8 all right. I aint 
a-scared about that — only if he’s alive and well; yes, sir. 
Well, good-evenin’, sir. Yes, sir; I think I’ll come to 
the mission nex’ Sunday — and I’ll bring the baby, will I ? 
All right, sir. Well, so long, sir. Take care of your¬ 
self, sir.” 

What a word that was I It echoed in his ear all the 
way home: “Take care of yourself'* What boast is 
there for the civilization that refines away the unconscious 
heroism of the unfriended poor? 

He was glad he had not told Richling all his little 
eecret. But Eichling found it out later from Dr. Sevier. 


WHAT WOULD YOU DO? 


329 


v 


CHAFTER XLIV. 

WHAT WOULD YOU DO? 

rriHREE days Mary’s letter lay unanswered. About 
dusk of the third, as Richling was hurrying acjoss 
the yard of the bakery on some errand connected with the 
establishment, a light touch was laid upon his shoulder; 
a peculiar touch, which he recognized in an instant. He 
turned in the gloom and exclaimed, in a whisper: — 

“ Why, Ristofalo I ” 

“ Howdy? ” said Raphael, in his usual voice. 

“ Why, how did you get out ? ” asked Richling. “ Have 
you escaped ? ” 

“ No. Just come out for little air. Captain of the 
prison and me. Not captain, exactly; one of the keepers. 
Goin’ back some time to-night.” He stood there in his 
old-fashioned way, gently smiling, and looking as im¬ 
movable as a piece of granite. “ Have you heard from 
wife lately ? ” 

“Yes,” said Richling. “ But — why — I don’t under¬ 
stand. You and the jailer out together?” 

“Yes, takin’ a little stroll ’round. He's out there ixf 
the street. You can see him on door-step ’cross yonder, ‘ 
Pretty drunk, eh ? ” The Italian’s smile broadened for a 
moment, then came back to its usual self again. “ I jus’ 
lef’ Kate at home. Thought I’d come see you a litt?^. 
while.” 

“ Return calls?” suggested Richling. 

“ Yes, return call. Your wife well ? ” 


330 


DE. SBVIBR. 


“ Yes. But — why, this is the drollest ” — He stopped 
8h>Drt, for the Italian’s gravity indicated his opinion that 
there had been enough amusement shown. “ Yes, she’s 
well, thank you. By-the-by, what do you think of my 
letting her come out here now and begin life over again? 
Doesn’t it seem to you it’s high time, if we’re ever going 
to do it at all ? ” 

“ What you think? ” asked Ristofalo. 

Well, now, you answer my question first.” 

No, you answer me first.” 

“ I can’t. I haven’t decided. I’ve been three days 
thinking about it. It may seem like a small matter to 
hesitate so long over”— Richling paused for his hearer 
to dissent. 

“ Yes,” said Ristofalo, “ pretty small.” His smile 
remained the same. “She ask you? Reckon you put 
her up to it, eh?” 

“ I don’t see why you should reckon that,” said Rich- 
ling, with resentful coldness. 

“I dunno,” said the Italian; “thought so—that’s 
the way fellows do sometimes.” There was a pause. Then 
he resumed: “ I wouldn’t let her come yet. Wait.” 

“For what?” 

“ See which way the cat goin’ to jump.” 

Richling laughed unpleasantly. 

“ What do you mean by that?” he Inquired. 

“ We goin’ to have war,” said Raphael Ristofalo. 

“ Ho! ho! ho! Why, Ristofalo, you were never more 
mistaken in your life ! ” 

“ I dunno,” replied the Italian, sticking in his tracks ; 
‘ ‘ think it pretty certain'. I read all the papers every 
day; nothin’ else to do in parish prison. Think we so« 
war njx’ winter.” 

“ Ristofalo, a man of your sort can hardly conceive 


WHAT WOULD YOU DO? 


331 


the amount of bluster this country can stand without 
commg to blows. We Americans are not like you 
Italians.” 

“ No,” responded Ristofalo, ‘ not much like.” His 
smile changed peculiarly “ Wasn’t for Kate, I go to 
Italia now.” 

“ Kate and the parish prison,” said Richling. 

“Oh! ”— the old smile returned, — “I get out that 
place any time I want.” 

“And you’d join Garibaldi, I suppose?” The news 
had just come of Garibaldi in Sicily. 

“Yes,” responded the Italian. There was a twinkle 
deep in his eyes as he added: “ I know Garibaldi.” 

“ Indeed! ” 

“Yes. Sailed under him when he was ship-cap’n. He 
knows me.” 

“ And I dare say he’d remember you,” said Richling, 
with enthusiasm. 

“ He remember me,” said the quieter man. “Well, — 
must go. Good-e’nin’. Better tell yo’ wife wait a while.” 

“I — don’t know. I’ll see. Ristofalo” — 

“What?” 

“ I want to quit this business.” 

“ Better not quit. Stick to one thing.” 

“ But you never did that. You never did one thing 
twice in succession.” 

“ There’s heap o’ diff’ence.” 

“ I don’t see it. What is it? ” 

But the Italian only smiled and shrugged, and began to 
move away. In a moment he said ; — 

“You see, IVIr. Richlin’, you sen’ for yo’ wife, you 
can’- risk change o’ business. You change business, you 
can’t risk sen’ for yo’ wife. Well, good-night.” 

Richling was left to his thoughts. Naturally they were 


332 


DR. SEVIEB. 


of tie man whom he still saw, in his imagination, picking 
his jailer up off the door-step and going back to prisoa 
Who could say that this man might not any day make 
just such a lion’s leap into the world’s arena as Garibaldi 
had made, and startle the nations as Garibaldi hai done? 
What was that red-shirted scourge of tyrants that this 
man might not be? Sailor, soldierj hero, patriot, pris¬ 
oner ! See Garibaldi: despising the restraints of law; 
careless of the simplest conventionalities that go to make 
up an honest gentleman; doing both right and wrong — 
like a lion; everything in him leonine. All this was in 
Ristofalo’s reach. It was all beyond Richling’s. Which 
was best, the capability or the incapability? It was a 
question he would have liked to ask Mary. 

Well, at any rate, he had strength now for one thing — 
“one pretty small thing.” He would answer her letter. 
He answered it, and wrote: “Don’t come; wait a little 
while.” He put aside all those sweet lovers’ pictures that 
had been floating before his eyes by night and day, and 
bade her stay until the summer, with its risks to health, 
should have passed, and she could leave her mother well 
and strong. 

It was only a day or two afterward that he fell sick. 
It was provoking to have such a cold and not know how 
he caught it, and to have it in such fine weather. He was 
in bed some days, and was robbed of much sleep by a 
cough. Mrs. Reisen found occasion to tell Dr. Sevier of 
Mary’s desire, as communicated to her by “ Mr. Richlin*,” 
and of the advice she had given him. 

“ And he didn’t send for her, I suppose.” 

“No, SU-.” 

“Well, IVIrs. Reisen, I wish you had kept your advic« 
to yourself.” The Doctor went to Richling’s bedside. 

“ Richling, why don t you send for your wife?” 


WHAT WOULD YOU DO? 


333 


The patient floundered in the bed and drew himself up 
cn his pillow. 

“ O Doctor, Just listen I ” He smiled incredulously. 
“ Bring that little woman and her baby down here just as 
the hot season is beginning?” He thought a moment, 
and then continued; “ I’m afraid, Doctor, you’re prescrib¬ 
ing for homesickness. Pray don’t tell me that’s my 
ailment.” 

“^No, it’s not. You have a bad cough, that you must 
take care of; but still, the other is one of the counts in 
your case, and you know how quickly Mary and — the 
little girl would cure it.” 

Richling smiled again. 

“ I can’t do that. Doctor ; when I go to Mary, or send 
lor her, on account of homesickness, it must be hers, not 
mine.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Reisen,” said the Doctor, outside the street 
door, I hope you’ll remember my request.” 

“I’ll tdo udt, Dtoctor,” was the reply, so humbly 
spoken that he repented half his harshness. 

“ I suppose you’ve often heard that ‘ you can’t make a 
silk purse of a sow’s ear,’ haven’t you?” he asked. 

“ Yes; I pin right often heeard udt.” She spoke as 
though she was not wedded to any inflexible opinion con¬ 
cerning the proposition. 

“ Well, Mrs. Reisen, as a man once said to me, 
‘ neither can you make a sow’s ear out of a silk purse.’ ” 

“ Veil, to be cettaintly! ” said the poor woman, drawing 
not the shadow of an inference; “ how kin you?” 

“Mr. Richling tells me he will write to Mrs. Richling 
to prepare to come down in the fall.” 

“Veil,” exclaimed the delighted Mrs. Reisen, in her 
husband’s best manner, “ fat’s te etsectly I atwised 
him I ” And, as the Doctor drove away, she rubbed hef 


334 


DR. SEVIER. 


mighty hands around each other in restored complacency 
Two or three days later she had the additional pleasure 
of seeing Richling up and about his work again. It was 
upon her motherly urging that he indulged himself, one 
calm^ warm afternoon, in a walk in the upper part of the 


MAKCI88B WITH NEWS. 


335 


CHAPTER XLV. 

NARCISSE WITH MEWS. 

I T was very beautiful to see the summer set in. Trees 
everywhere. You looked down a street, and, unless it 
were one of the two broad avenues where the only street¬ 
cars ran, it was pretty sure to be so overarched with 
boughs that, down in the distance, there was left but a 
narrow streak of vivid blue sky in the middle. Well-nigh 
every house had its garden, as every garden its countless 
flowers. The dark orange began to show its growing 
weight of fruitfulness, and was hiding in its thorny inte¬ 
rior the nestlings of yonder mocking-bird, silently forag¬ 
ing down in the sunny grass. The yielding branches of 
the privet were bowed down with their plumy panicles, 
and swayed heavily from side to side, drunk with glad¬ 
ness and plenty. Here the peach was beginning to droop 
over a wall. There, and yonder again, beyond, ranks of 
flg-trees, that had so mufifled themselves in their foliage 
that not the nakedness of a twig showed through, had yet 
more figs than leaves. The crisp, cool masses of the 
pomegranate were dotted with scarlet flowers. The cape 
jasmine wore hundreds of her own white favors, whose 
fragrance forerun the sight. Every breath of air was a 
new perfume. Roses, an innumerable host, ran a fairy 
riot about all grounds, and clambered from the lowest 
door-step to the highest roof. The oleander, wrapped in 
one great garment of red blossoms, nodded in the sun, 
»nd stirred and winked in the fainl stirrings of the air 


836 


DR. SEVIER. 


The pale banana elowly fanned herself with her owa 
broad leaf. High up against the intense sky, its hard, 
burnished foliage glittering in the sunlight, the magnolia 
spread its dark boughs, adorned with their (queenly white 
flowers. Not a bird nor an insect seemed unmated. The 
little wren stood and sung to his sitting wife his loud, 
ecstatic song, made all of her own name, — Matilda, 
Urilda, Lucinda, Belinda, Adaline, Madalme, Caroline, or 
Melinda, as the case might be, — singing as though every 
bone of his tiny body were a golden flute. The humming¬ 
birds hung on invisible wings, and twittered with delight 
as they feasted on woodbine and honeysuckle. The 
pigeon on the roof-tree cooed and wheeled about his mate, 
and swelled his throat, and tremulously bowed and walked 
with a smiting step, and arched his purpling neck, and 
wheeled and bowed and wheeled again. Pairs of butter¬ 
flies rose in straight upward flight, fluttered about each 
other in amorous strife, and drifted away in the upper air. 
And out of every garden came the voices of little children 
at play, — the blessedest sound on earth. 

“ O Mary, Mary! why should two lovers live apart on 
this beautiful earth? Autumn is no time for mating. 
Who can tell what autumn will bring ? ” 

The I every was interrupted. 

“M^stoo Ttchlin, W you enjoyin’ yo’ ’ealth in that 
beaucheous weatheh juz at the pwesent? Me, I’m well. 
Yes, I’m always well, in fact. At the same time nevva- 
^ theless, I flne myseff slightly sad. I s’pose ’tis natu’al — 
a man what love the ’itings of Lawd By’on as much as 
me. You know, of co’se, the melancholic intelligens ? ” 
“ No,” said Richling ; “ has any one ” — 

“ Lady By’on, seh. Yesseh. ‘ In the mids’ of life’ — 
fou know where we ah, Mistoo Itchlin, I su-pose?” 

“ Is Lady Byron dead? ” 


NARCISSE WITH NEWS. 


337 


“ Yesseh.” Narcisse bowed solemnly. “Gone, JVIistoc 
Itchlin. Since the seventeenth of last; yesseh. ‘ Kig 
the bucket,* as the povvub say.’* He showed ar extra 
band of black drawn neatly around h*s new straw hat. 
“I thought it but p’opeh to put some moaning — as a 
species of twibute.** He restored the hat to his head. 
“You like the tas’e of that, Mistoo Itchlin?** 

Richling could but confess the whole thing was deli¬ 
cious. 

“ Yo humble servan*, seh,** responded the smiling Creole, 
with a flattered bow. Then, assuming a gravity be¬ 
coming the historian, he said: — 

“ In fact, *tis a gweat mistake, that statement that 
Lawd By’on evva qua’led with his lady, Mistoo Itchlin. 
But I s’pose you know ’tis but a slandeh of the pwess. 
Yesseh. As, faw instance, thass anotheh slandeh of the 
pwess that the delegates qua’led ad the Chawleston con¬ 
vention. They only pwetend to qua’l; so, by that way, 
to mizguide those A6oZish-nists. Mistoo Itchlin, I am 
p’ojecting to *ite some obitua* ’emawks about that Lady 
By’on, but I scass know w*etheh to *ite them in the poetic 
style aw in the p’osaic. Which would you conclude, 
Mistoo Itchlin?” 

Richling reflected with downcast eyes. 

“It seems to me,” he said, when he had passed his 
hand across his mouth in apparent meditation and looked 
up, — “ seems to me I’d conclude both, without delay.** 

“Yes? But accawding to what fawmule, Mistoo 
Itchlin? ‘ Ay, *tis theh is the *ub,* in fact, as Lawd 
By’on say. Is it to migs the two style* that you 
advise ? ” 

“ That’s tbe favorite method,” replied Richling. 

“ Well, I dunno *ow *tis, Mistoo Itchlin, but I fine the 
moze facil’ty in the poetic. *Tis t’ue, in the poetic you 


338 


DR. SEVIER. 


got to look out concehning the Hme. You got to keep 
the eye skin’ faw it, in fact. But in the p’osaic, on the 
cont’a-ay, ’tis juz the opposite; you got to keep the e e 
skin’ faw the sense, Yesseh. Now, if you migs the two 
style’ — well — ’ow’s that, Mistoo Itchlin, if you miggi 
them? Seem’ to me I dunno.” 

“Why, don’t you see?” asked Richling. “If ym 
mix them, you avoid both necessities. You sail trium 
phantly between Scylla and Charybdis without so much 
as skinning your eye.” 

Narcisse looked at him a moment with a slightly search¬ 
ing glance, dropped his eyes upon his own beautiful feet, 
and said, in a meditative tone : — 

“ I believe you co’ect.” But his smile was gone, and 
Richling saw he had ventured too far. 

“I wish my wife were here,” said Richling; “she 
might give you better advice than I.” 

“Yes,” replied Narcisse, “I believe you co’ect ag’in, 
Mistoo Itchlin. ’Tis but since yeste’d’y that I jus appen 
to hea’ Dr. Seveah d’op a saying ’esembling to that. 
Yesseh, she’s a v’ey ’emawkable, Mistoo Itchlin.’* 

“ Is that what Dr. Sevier said?” Richling began to 
fear an ambush. 

“No, seh. What the Doctah say — ’twas me’ly to 
’emawk in his jocose way—you know the Doctah’s lill 
callous, jocose way, Mistoo Itchlin.” 

He waved either hand outward gladsomely. 

“Yes,” said Richling, “ I’ve seen specimens of it.” 

“ Yesseh. He was ve’y complimenta’y, in fact, the 
Doctah. ’Tis the trooth. He says, ‘ She’ll make a man 
of Witchlin if anythin’ can.’ Juz in his jocose way, yon 
know.” 

The Creole’s smile had returned in concentrated sweetr 
nesB He stood silent, his face beaming with what 


NARCISSE WITH NEWS. 


339 


seemed his confidence that Richling would be delighted. 
Richling recalled the physician^s saying concerning this 
very same little tale-bearer, — that he carried his nonsense 
on top and his good sense underneath. 

“Dr. Sevier said that, did he?” asked Richling, after 
a time. 

“'Tis the vehbatim, seh. Convussing to yo* ’eve’end 
fwend. You can ask him; he will co’obo’ate me in fact. 
Well, Mistoo Itchlin, it supp’ise me you not tickle at that. 
Me, I may say, I wish I had a wife to make a man out of 
me. 

“ I wish you had,” said Richling. But Narcisse smiled 
on. 

“Well, au *evof. ” He paused an instant with an 
earnest face. “Pehchance Pll meet you this evening, 
Mistoo Itchlin? Faw doubtless, like myseff, you will 
assist at the gweat a-ally faw the Union, the Const^ution, 
and the enfo’cemen’ of the law. Dr. Seveah will ad- 
dwess.” 

“ I don’t know that I care to hear him,” replied 
Richling. 

“ Goin’ to be a '“gwan’ out-po’-ing, Mistoo Itchlin. 
Citizens of Noo ’Leans without the leas’ ’espec’ faw 
fawmeh poUy-tickle diff’ence. Also fiah-works. ‘ Come 
one, come all,’ as says the gweat Scott — includin’ yo’seflP, 
Mistoo Itchlin. No? Well, au *evoi\ Mistoo Itchlin.” 


340 


DB. SBYIBB. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


A PBISON MEMENTO. 


HE political pot began to seethe. Many yet wU. 



-L remember hoits smoke went up. Thesummer—• 
summer of 1860 — grew fervent. Its breath became hot 
and dry. All observation — all thought — turned upon 
the fierce campaign. Discussion dropped as to whether 
Heenan would ever get that champion’s belt, which even 
the little rector believed he had fairly won in the inter- 
.national prize-ring. The news brought by each succeed¬ 
ing European steamer of Garibaldi’s splendid triumphs in 
the cause of a new Italy, the fierce rattle of partisan war¬ 
fare in Mexico, that seemed almost within hearing, so 
nearly was New Orleans concerned in some of its 
movements, — all things became secondary and trivial 
beside the developments of a political canvass in which 
the long-foreseen, long-dreaded issues between two parts 
of the nation were at length to be made final. The con¬ 
ventions had met, the nominations were complete, and 
the clans of four parties and fractions of parties were 
“ meeting,” and “rallying,” and “ uprising,” and “out¬ 
pouring.” 

All life was strung to one high pitch. This contest 
was everything,—nay, everybody, — men^ women, and 
children. They were all for the Constitution ; they were 
all for the Union; and each, even Richling, for the 
enforcement of — his own ideas. On every bosom, “no 
matteh the sex,” and no matter the age, hung one of 


A PRISON MEMENTO. 


341 


those little round, ribbanded medals, with a presidential 
candidate on one side and his vice-presidential man 
Friday on the other. Needless to say that Ristofalo’a 
Kate, instructed by her husband, imported the earliest 
and many a later invoice of them, and distributing her 
peddlers at choice thronging-places, “ everlastin’ly,” as 
she laughingly and confidentially informed Dr. Sevier, 
“ raked in the sponjewlicks.” They were exposed for 
sale on little stalls on populous sidewalks and places of 
much entry and exit. 

The post-office in those days was still on Royal street, 
in the old Merchants’ Exchange. The small hand-holes 
of the box-delivery were in the wide tessellated passage 
that still runs through the building from Royal street to 
Exchange alley. A keeper of one of these little stalls 
established himself against a pillar just where men turned 
into and out of Royal street, out of or into this passage. 
One day, in this place, just as Richling turned from a 
delivery window to tear the envelope of a letter bearing 
the Milwaukee stamp, his attention was arrested by a 
man running by him toward Exchange alley, pale as 
death, and followed by a crowd that suddenly broke into 
a cry, a howl, a roar; “ Hang him! Hang him ! ” 

“ Come ! ” said a small, strong man, seizing Richling’s 
arm and turning him in the common direction. If the 
word was lost on Richling’s defective hearing, not so the 
touch ; for the speaker was Ristofalo. The two friends 
ran with all their speed through the passage and out into 
the alley. A few rods away the chased wretch had been 
overtaken, and was made to face his pursuers. When 
Richling and Ristofalo reached him there was already a 
rope about his neck. 

The Italian’s leap, as he closed in upon the group 
around the victim, was like a ciger’s. The men hs 


342 


DR. SEVIER. 


touched did not fall; they were rather hurled, driving 
backward those whom they were hurled against. A man 
levelled a revolver at him ; Richling struck it a blow that 
sent it over twenty men’s heads. A long knife flashed in 
Ristofalo’s right hand. He stood holding the rope in his 
left, stooping slightly forward, and darting his eyes about 
as if selecting a victim for his weapon. A stranger 
touched Richling from behind, spoke a humed word in 
Italian, and handed him a huge dirk. But in that same 
moment the affair was over. There stood Ristofalo, 
gentle, self-contained, with just a perceptible smile turned 
upon the crowd, no knife in his hand, and beside him the 
slender, sinewy, form, and keen gray eye of Smith Izard. 

The detective was addressing the crowd. While he was 
speaking, half a score of police came from as many direc¬ 
tions. When he had finished, he waved his slender hand 
at the mass of heads. 

“Stand back. Go about your business.” And they 
began to go. He laid a hand upon the rescued stranger 
and addressed the police. 

“ Take this rope off. Take this man to the station and 
keep him until it’s safe to let him go.” 

The explanation by which he had so quickly pacified 
the mob was a simple one. The rescued man was a seller 
of campaign medals. That morning, in opening a fresh 
supply of his little stock, he had failed to perceive that, 
among a lot of “ Breckenridge and Lane” medals, there 
had crept in one of Lincoln. That was the sum of hia 
offence. The mistake had occurred in the Northern fac¬ 
tory. Of course, if he did not intend to sell Lincoln medals, 
there was no crime. 

“Don’t I tell you?” said the Italian to Richling, as 
they were walking away together. “ Bound to have war •. 
is already begin-n.” 


A PRISON MEMENTO. 


343 


“ It began with me the day I got married/' said Rich- 
dng. 

Ristofalo waited some time, and then asked: — 

“ How?* 

“ I shouldn't have said so,” replied Richling ; “I can’t 
sxplain.” 

“ Thass all right,” said the other. And, a little later: 
“ Smith Izard call' you by name. How he know yo’ 
name ? ” 

“ I can’t imagine I ” 

The Italian waved his hand. 

“ Thass all right, too; nothin’ to me.” Then, after 
another pause: “ Think yoii saved my life to-day.” 

“ The honors are easy,” said Richling. 

He went to bed again for two or three days. He liked 
it little when Dr. Sevier attributed the illness to a few 
moments’ violent exertion and excitement. 

“ It was bravely done, at any rate, Richling,” said the 
Doctor. 

“ That it was I ” said Kate Ristofalo, who had happened 
to call to see the sick man at the same hour. “ Doctor, 
ye’r mighty right! Ha I ” 

Mrs. Reisen expressed a like opinion, and the two kind 
women met the two men’s obvious wish by leaving the 
room. 

“ Doctor,” said Richling at once, “the last time you 
said it was love-sickness; this time you say it’s excite¬ 
ment ; at the bottom it isn’t either. Will you please teU 
me what it really is ? What is this thing that puts me 
here on my back this way?” 

“ Richling,” replied the Doctor, slowly, “ if I tell you 
the honest truth, it began in that prison.” 

The patient knit his hands under his head and lay 
motionless and silent. 


344 


DR. SEVIER. 


“Yes,” he said, after a time. And ty and by again: 
“ Yes ; I feared as much. And can it be that my physical 
manhood is going to fail me at such a time as this ? ” He 
drew a long breath and turned restively in the bed. 

“We’ll try to keep it from doing that,” replied the 
physician. “ I’ve told you this, Richling, old fellow, to 
impress upon you the necessity of keeping out of all this 
hubbub, — this night-marching and mass-meeting and 
exciting nonsense.” 

“ And am I always — always to be blown back — blown 
back this way ? ” said Richling, half to himself, half to his 
friend. 

“ There, now,” responded the Doctor, “ just stop talk¬ 
ing entirely. No, no; not always blown back. A sick 
man always thinks the present moment is the whole bound* 
less future. Get well. And to that end possess your 
soul in patience. No newspapers. Read your Bible. It 
will calm you. I’ve been trying it myself.” His tone was 
full of cheer, but it was also so motherly and the touch so 
gentle with which he put back the sick man’s locks — as 
if they had been a lad’s — that Richling turned away his 
face with chagrin. 

“Come!” said the Doctor, more sturdily, laying his 
hand on the patient’s shoulder. “ You’ll not lie here 
more than a day or two. Before you know it summer 
will be gone, and you’ll be sending for Mary.” 

Richling turned again, put out a parting hand, and 
smiled with new courage. 


NOW I liAT MB 


Ub 


CHAPTER XLVn. 

NOW I LAT MS — 

rrilME may drag slowly, but it never drags backward. 

So the summer wore on, Richling following'his physi¬ 
cian’s directions; keeping to his work only — out of 
public excitements and all overstrain; and to every day, 
as he bade it good-by, his eager heart, lightened each 
time by that much, said, “ When you come around again, 
next year, Mary and I will meet you hand in hand.” 
This was his excitement, and he seemed to flourish on it. 

But day by day, week by week, the excitements of 
the times rose. Dr. Sevier was deeply stirred, and ever 
on the alert, looking out upon every quarter of the polit¬ 
ical sky, listening to th.3 rising thunder, watching the 
gathering storm. There could hardly have been any one 
more completely engrossed by it. If there was, it was 
his book-keeper. It wasn’t so much the Constitution that 
snlisted Narcisse’s concern; nor yet the Union, which 
seemed to him safe enough; much less did the desire to 
see the enforcement of the laws consume him. Nor was 
it altogether the “’oman candles’’and the “’ockets’' ; 
but the rhetoric. 

Ah, the “’eto’ic”! He bathed, he paddled, dove, 
splashed, in a surf of it. 

“Doctah,” — shaking his finely turned shoulders into 
his coat and lifting his hat toward his head, — “I had 
the honah, and at the same time the pleasu’, to yeh you 
make a shawt speech lass evening. I was p’oud toyeb 


546 


DR. SBVIEK. 


JO* banning eloquence, Doctah, — if you’ll allow. Yesseh. 
Eve’ybody said ’twas the moze bilious eflPo’t of the o’-ca* 
•ion.” 

Dr. Sevier actually looked up and smiled, and thanked 
the happy young man for the compliment. 

“Yesseh,” continued his admirer, “I nevveh flatteh. 
I give me’-it where the me’-it lies. Well, seh, we juz 
make the welkin ’ing faw joy when you finally stop* at the 
en*. Pehchance you heard my voice among that sea of 
head’ ? But I doubt — in ’such a vas’ up’ising — so 
many imposing pageant*, in fact, — and those ’ocket’ 
exploding in the staw-y heaven*, as they say. I think I 
like that exp’ession I saw on the newzpapeh, wheh it says: 
‘ Long biffo the appointed owwa, thousan* of flashing 
tawches and tas’eful t’anspa’encies with divuz devices 
whose blazing effulgence turn’ day into night.’ Thass a 
ve’y talented style, in fact. Well, au *evoi\ Doctah. 
I’m going ad the — an* thass anotheh thing I like — ’tis 
faw the ladies to ’ing bells that way on the balconies. 
Because Mr. Bell and Eve’et is name bell, and so is the 
bells name’ juz the same way, and so they ’ing the bells to 
signify. I had to elucidate that to my hant Well, au 
'evoi*, Doctah.” 

The Doctor raised his eyes from his letter-writing. 
The young man had turned, and was actually going out 
without another word. What perversity moved the phy¬ 
sician no one will ever know ; but he sternly called : — 

“ Narcisse?” 

The Creole wheeled about on the threshold. 

“ Yesseh? ** 

The Doctor held him with a firm, grave eye, and slowlj 
•aid: — 

“ I suppose before 3^ou return you will go to the post 
ofl^je.” He said nothing more,—only that, just in hi* 


NOW I Lai mb — 


347 


JooOM vay, — and dropped his eyes again upon his pen 
N’arcisse gave him one long black look, and silently went 
out. 

But a sweet complacency could n^t stay long away 
♦rom the yoing man’s breast. The world was too beau- 
tifu’, the white, hot sky above was in such fine harmony 
with his puflTed lawn shirt-bosom and his white linen 
pantaloons, bulging at the thighs and tapering at the 
ankles, and at the corner of Canal and Royal streets he 
met so many members of the Yancey Guards and Southern 
Guards and Chalmette Guards and Union Guards and 
Lane Dragoons! and Breckenridge jGuards and Douglas 
Rangers and Everett Knights, and had the pleasant 
trouble of stepping aside and yielding the pavement to 
the far-spreading crinoline. Oh, life was one scintillating 
cluster breast-pin of ecstasies! And there was another 
thing, — General William Walker’s filibusters ! Royal 
street, St. Charles, the rotunda of the St. Charles Hotel, 
wore full of them. 

It made Dr. Sevier both sad and fierce to see what 
hold their lawless enterprise took upon the youth of the 
city. Not that any great number were drawn into 
the movement, least of all Narcisse; but it captivated 
their/interest and sympathy, and heightened the general 
unrest, when calmness was what every thoughtful man 
saw to be the country’s greatest need. 

An incident to illustrate the Doctor’s state of mind. 

It occurred one evening in the St. Charles rotunda. 
He saw some citizens of high standing preparing to drink 
at the bar with a group of broad-hatted men, whose 
bronzed foreheads and general out-of-door mien hinted 
rather ostentatiously of Honduras and Ruatan Island. 
As he passed close to them one of the citizens faced him 
blandly, and unexpectedly took his hand, but quickly let 


848 


DR. fiKVIBa. 


‘t go again. The rest only glanced at the Doctor, and 
drew nearer to the bar. 

“ I trust you’re not unwell, Doctor,” said the sociable 
one, with something of a smile, and something of a frown, 
at the tall physician’s gloomy brow. 

“ I am well, sir.” 

“I — didn’t know,” said the man again, throwing an 
aggressive resentment into his tone ; “ you seemed pre¬ 
occupied.” 

“ I was,” replied the Doctor, returning his glance with 
BO keen an eye that the man' smiled again, appeasingly. 
“ I was thinking how barely skin-deep civilization is.” 

The man ha-ha’d artificially, stepping backward as he 
said, “ That’s so! ” He looked after the departing Doctor 
an instant and then joined his companions. 

Richling had a touch of this contagion. He looked 
from Garibaldi to Walker and back again, and could not 
see any enormous difference between them. He said as 
much to one of the bakery’s customers, a restaurateur 
with a well-oiled tongue, who had praised him for his 
intrepidity in the rescue of the medal-peddler, which, it 
seems, he had witnessed. With this praise still upon his 
lips the caterer walked with Richling to the restaurant 
door, and detained him there to enlarge upon the subject 
of Spanish-American misrule, and the golden rewards that 
must naturally fall to those who should supplant it with 
stable government. Richling listened and replied and 
replied again and listened ; and presently the restaurateur 
startled him with an offer to secure him a captain’s com¬ 
mission under Walker. He laughed incredulously; but 
the restaurateur, very much in earnest, talked on ; and by 
littles, but rapidly, Richling admitted the value of the 
various considerations urged. Two or three months ol 
rapid adventure; complete physical renovation — of coursa 


NOW I LAT MB — 


349 


— natural sequence; the plaudits of a grateful people; 
maybe fortune also, but at least a certainty of finding the 
road to it, — all this to meet Mary with next fall. 

“I’m in a great hurry just now,” said Richling; “but 
m talk about this thing with you again to-morrow or next 
day,” and so left. 

The restaurateur turned to his head-waiter, stuck his 
tongue in his cheek, and pulled down the lower lid of an 
eye with his forefinger. He meant to say he had been 
lying for the pure fun of it. 

When Dr. Sevier came thatjafternoon to see Reisen — 
of whom there was now but little left, and that little 
unable to leave the bed — Richling took occasion to raise 
the subject that had entangled his fancy. He was care¬ 
ful to say nothing of himself or the restaurateur, or 
anything, indeed, but a timid generality or two. But the 
Doctor responded with a clear, sudden energy that, when 
he was gone, left Richling feeling painfully blank, and yet 
unable to find anything to resent except the Doctor’s 
superfluous — as he thought, quite superfluous — mention 
of the island of Cozumel. 4- 

However, and after all, that^wtiich for the most part 
kept the public mind heated was, as we have said, the 
political campaign. Popular feeling grew tremulous with 
it as the landscape did under the burning sun. It was a 
very hot summer. Not a good one for feeble folk; and 
one early dawn poor Reisen suddenly felt all his reason 
come back to him, opened bis eyes, and lo I he had 
crossed the river in the night, and was on the other side. 

Dr. Sevier’s experienced horse halted of his own will 
to let a procession pass. In tbe carriage at its head 
the phj'sician saw the little rector, sitting beside a man of 
German ecclesiastical appearance. Behind it followed a 
majestic hearse, drawn by '^hck-plumed and caparisoned 


350 


DE. SEVIBK. 


horses, — four of ohem. Then came a ong line of re4 
shirted firemen; for he in the hearse had been an 
exempt.” Then a further line of big-handed, white- 
gloved men in beavers and regalias ; for he had been also 
a Freemason and an Odd-fellow. Then another column, 
of emotionless-visaged German women, all in bunchy black 
gowns, walking out of time to the solemn roll and pulse 
of the muffled drums, and the brazen peals of the funeral 
march. A few carriages closed the long line. In the 
first of them the waiting Doctor marked, with a sudden 
understanding of all, the pale face of John Richling, and 
by his side the widow who had been forty years a wife,— 
weary and red with weeping. The Doctor took of? his 
bst. 


MSB Ur, Mr LOVE, Mr FAIK ONE I 351 


CHAPTER XLVm. 

EISE UP, MT LOVE, MT FAIB ONI » 

T he summer at length was past, and the burning heat 
was over and gone. The days were refreshed with 
the balm of a waning October. There had been no fever. 
True, the nights were still aglare with torches, and the 
street echoes kept awake by trumpet notes and huzzas, 
by the tramp of feet and the delicate hint of the bell¬ 
ringing ; and men on the stump and off it; in the 
“ wigwamsalong the sidewalks, as they came forth, 
wiping their mouths, from the free-lunch counters, and on 
the curbstones and “flags” of Carondelet street, were 
sajung things to make a patriot’s heart ache. But con¬ 
trariwise, in that same Carondelet street, and hence in all 
the streets of the big, scattered town, the most pros¬ 
perous commercial year — thej^ measure from September 
to September — that had ever risen upon New Orleans 
had closed its distended record, and no one knew or 
dreamed that, for nearly a quarter of a century to come, 
the proud city would never see the equal of that golden 
year just gone. And so, away yonder among the great 
lakes on the northern border of the anxious but hopeful 
country, Mary was calling, calling, like an unseen bird 
piping across the fields for its mate, to know if she and 
the one little nestling might not come to hers. 

An d at length, after two or three unexpected contin¬ 
gencies had caused delays of one week after another, all 


352 


DE. 8EVIEE. 


In a silent tremor of joy, John wrote the word—* 
“Cornel” 

He was on his way to put it into the post-oflSce, in 
Royal street. . At the newspaper offices, in Camp street, 
he had to go out into the middle of the way to get around 
the crowd that suiTounded the bulletin-boards, and that 
scuffied for copies of the latest issue. The day of days 
was passing ; the returns of election were coming in. In 
front of the “Picayune” office he ran square against a 
small man, who had just pulled himself and the most of 
his clothing out of the press with the last news crumpled 
in the hand that he still held above his head. 

“ Hello, Richling, this is pretty exciting, isn’t it? ” It 
was the little clergyman. “ Come on. I’ll go your way ; 
let’s get out of this.” 

He took Richling’s arm, and they went on down the 
street, the rector reading aloud as they walked, and shop¬ 
keepers and salesmen at their doors catching what they 
could of his words as the two passed. 

“ It’s dreadful! dreadful! ” said the little man, thrust¬ 
ing the paper into his pocket in a wad. 

“Hi! Mistoo Itchlin,” quoth Narcisse, passing them 
like an arrow, on his way to the paper offices. 

“ He’s happy,” said Richling. 

“ Well, then, he’s the only happy man I know of in 
New Orleans to-day,” said the little rector, jerking his 
head and drawing a sigh through his teeth. 

“No,” said Richling, “I’m another. You see this 
letter.” He showed it with the direction turned down. 
' * Pm going now to mail it. When my wife gets it sh« 
starts.” 

The preacher glanced quickly into his face. Richling 
met his gaze with eyes that danced with suppressed joy. 
The two friends attracted no attention from those whom 


RISE UP, MY LOVE, MY FAIR ONE I 353 


they passed or who passed them; the newsboys were 
scampering here and there, everybody buying from them, 
and the walls of Common street ringing with their 
shouted proffers of the “ full account ” of the election. 

‘•Richling, don’t do it.” 

“ Why not? ” Richling showed only amusement. 

“ For several reasons,” replied the other. “ In the 
first place, look at your business ! ” 

“ Never so good as to-day.” 

“True. And it entirely absorbs you. What time 
would you have at your fireside, or even at your family 
table? None. It’s — well you know what it is — it’s a 
bakery, you know. You couldn’t expect to lodge your 
wife and little girl in a bakery in Benjamin street; you 
know you couldn’t. Now, you — you don’t mind it — or, 
I mean, you can stand it. Those things never need 
damage a gentleman. But with your wife it would be 
different. You smile, but — why, you know she couldn’t 
go there. And if you put her anywhere where a lady 
ought to be, in New Orleans, she would be — well, don’t 
you see she would be about as far away as if she were in 
Milwaukee? Richling, I don’t know how it looks to you 
for me to be so meddlesome, and I believe you think I’m 
making a very poor argument; but you see this is only 
one point and the smallest. Now ” — 

Richling raised his thin hand, and said pleasantly: — 

“ It’s no use. You can’t understand; it wouldn’t be 
possible to explain; for you simply dpn’t know Mary.” 

“ But there are some things I do know. Just think; 
she’s with her mother where she is. Imagine her falling 
ill here, — as you’ve told me she u^ed to do, — and you 
with that bakery on your hands.” 

Richling looked grave. 

“ Ob no,” continued the little man. “You’ve been sc 


354 


DK. SEVIER. 


brave and patient, you anc your wife, both, —do be so a 
little bit longer! Live clcee; save your money; go on 
rising in value in your business; and after a little you’ll 
dse clear out of the sphere you’re now in. You’U 
command your own time; you’ll build your own little 
home; and life and happiness and usefulness will be 
fairly and broadly open before you.” Richling gave heed 
with a troubled face, and let his companion draw him 
into the shadow of that “ St. Charles” from the foot of 
whose stair-way he had once been dragged away as a 
vagrant. 

“ See, Richling I Every few weeks you may read in 
some paper of how a man on some ferry-boat jumps for 
the wharf before the boat has touched it, falls into the 
water, and — Make sure! Be brave a little longer — 
only a little longer I Wait till you’re sure ! ” 

“ I’m sure enough ! ” 

“Oh, no, you’re not! Wait till this political broil is 
over. They say Lincoln is elected. If so, the South is 
not going to submit to it. Nobody can tell what the 
consequences are to be. Suppose we should have war? 
I don’t think we shall, but suppose we should? There 
would be a general upheaval, commercial stagnation, 
industrial collapse, shrinkage everywhere! Wait till it’s 
over. It may not be two weeks hence ; it can hardly be 
more than ninety days at the outside. If it should the 
North would be ruined, and you may be suie they are not 
going to allow that. Then, when all starts fair again, 
bring your wife and baby. I’ll tell you what to do, Rich 
ling! ” 

“Will you?” responded the listener, with an amiable 
^AUgh, that the little man tried to echo. 

“ Yes. Ask Dr. Sevier I He’s right here in the nexi 


RISE UP, MY LOVE, MY FAIR ONE I 356 

itreet. He was on your side last time ; maybe he’ll be so 
now.” 

“ Done I ” said Richling. They went. The rector said 
le would do an errand in Canal street, while Richling 
shoulf* go up and see the physician. 

Dr. Sevier was in. 

“Why, Richling!” He rose to receive him. “How 
are you ? ” He cast his eye over his visitor with profes¬ 
sional scrutiny. “What brings you here?” 

“ To tell you that I’ve written for Mary,” said Richling, 
sinking wearily into a chair. 

“Have you mailed the letter?” 

“ I’m taking it to the post-office now.” 

The Doctor threw one leg energetically over the other, 
and picked up the same paper-knife that he had handled 
when, two years and a half before, he had sat thus, talk¬ 
ing to Mary and John on the eve of their separation. 

“ Richling, I’ll tell you. I’ve been thinking about this 
thing for some time, and I’ve decided to make you a 
proposal. I look at you and at Mary and at the times — 
the condition of the country — the probable future — 
everything. I know you, physically and mentally, better 
than anybody else docs. I can say the same of Mary. 
So, of course, I don’t make this proposal impulsively, 
and I don’t want it rejected. 

“ Richling, I’ll lend you two thousand to twenty-five 
hundred dollars, payable at your convenience, if you will 
just go to your room, pack up, go home, and take from 
six to twelve months’ holiday with your wife and child.” 

The listener opened his mouth in blank astonishment. 

“ Why, Doctor, you’re jesting I You can’t suppose” — 

“I don’t suppose anything. I simply want you to io 
It.” 


“ WcU, I simply can’t I ” 


356 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ Did you ever regret taking my advice, Richling ? ” 

“No, never. But this — why, it’s utterly impossible! 
Me leave the results of four years’ struggle to go holiday¬ 
ing? I can’t understand you. Doctor.” 

“ ’Twould take weeks to explain.” 

“ It’s idle to think of it,” said Richling, half to himself. 

“ Go home and think of it twenty-four hours,” said the 
Doctor. 

“ It is useless. Doctor.” 

“ Very good, then ; send for Mary. Mail your letter.” 

“ You don’t mean it! ” said Richling. 

“ Yes, I do. Send for Mary; and tell her I advised 
it.” He turned quickly away to his desk, for Richling’s 
eyes had filled with tears; but turned again and rose as 
Richling rose. They joined hands. 

“Yes, Richling, send for her. It’s the right thing to 
do — if you will not do the other. You know I want you 
to be happy.” 

“ Doctor, one word. In your opinion is there going to 
be war ? ” 

“ I don’t know. But if there is it’s time for husband 
and wife and child to driw close together. G<x)d-day.’* 

And so the letter went 


A BUKBLE OF HOPES. 


357 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

A BUNDLE OF HOPES. 

R ICHLING insisted, in the face of much scepticism 
on the part of the baker’s widow, that he felt better, 
was better, and would go on getting better, now that the 
weather was cool once more. 

“Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin’, dtat’s a feet. 
’Specially ven yo’ vife cornin’. Dough I could a-tooken 
care ye choost tso koot as vot she couldt.” 

“ But maybe you couldn’t take care of her as well as I 
Vin,” said the happy Richling. 

“Oh, tdat’s a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care 
lerself.” 

Visiting the French market on one of these glad morn- 
ngs, as his business often required him to do, he fell in 
with Narcisse, just withdra wing from the celebrated coffee- 
stand of Rose Nicaud. Richling stopped in the moving 
crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly ; for here 
was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of 
Mary’s expected coming. 

“ So’y, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, whipping away 
the pastry crumbs from his lap with a handkerchief and 
wiping his mouth, “ not to encounteh you a lill biffo’, to 
join in pahtaking the cup what cheeahs at the same time 
whilce it invigo’ates; to-wit, the coffee-cup — as the 
maxim say. 1 dunno by what fawmule she makes that 
coffee, but ’tis astonishin’ how ’tis good, in fact. I dunne 
if you’ll billieve me, but I feel almost 1 could oahtakf 


358 


DR. SEVIER. 


anotheh cup — ? ’Tis the tooth.’" He gave Richling 
time to make any handsome offer that might spontaneously 
suggest itself, but seeing that the response was only an 
over-gay expression of face, he added, “ But I conclude 
no. In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, thass a thing I have dis- 
covud,—that too much coffee millytates ag’inst the 
chi’og’aphy; and thus I abstain. Well, seh, ole Abe is 
elected.” 

“ Yes,” rejoined Richling, “ and there’s no-telling what 
the result will be.” 

“ You co’ect, Mistoo Itchlin.” Narcisse tried to look 
troubled. 

“ I’ve got a bit of private news that I don’t think 
you’ve heard,” said Richling. And the Creole rejoined 
promptly: — 

“Well, I thought I saw something on yo’ thoughts — 
if you’ll excuse my tautology. Thass a ve’y diffycult to 
p’event sometime’. But, Mistoo Itchlin, I trus’ ’tis not 
you ’ave allowed somebody to swin’le you ? — confiding 
them too indiscweetly, in fact?” He took a pretty 
attitude, his eyes reposing in Richling’s. 

Richling laughed outright. 

“ No, nothing of that kind. No, I ” — 

“ Well, I’m ve’y glad,” interrupted Narcisse. 

“Oh, no, ’tisn’t trouble at all! I’ve sent for Mrs. 
Richling. We’re going to resume housekeeping.” 

Narcisse gave a glad start, took his hat off, passed it 
to his left hand, extended his right, bowed from the 
middle with princely grace, and, with ioy breaking all 
over his face, said: — 

“ Mistoo Itchlin, in fact, — shfke ! ” 

They shook. 

“ Yesseh — an’ many ’appy ’etuni! I dunno if you kin 
billieve that, Mistoo Itchlin ; but I was juz about to 


A BUNDLE OF HOPES. 


359 


'ead that in yo’ physio’nomie! Tesseh. But, Mistoo 
Itchlin, when shall the happy occasion take effect?” 

Pretty soon. Not as soon as I thought, for I got a 
despatch yesterday, saying her mother is very ill, and of 
course I telegraphed her to stay till her mother is at 
least convalescent. But I think that will be soon. Her 
mother has had these attacks before. T have good hopes 
that before long Mrs. Richling will actually be here.” 

Richling began to move away down the crowded 
market-house, but Narcisse said: — 

“ Thass JO* di’ection? ’Tis the same, mine. We may 
accompany togetheh — if you’ll allow yo’ ’umble suv- 
vant ?” 

“Come along! You do me honor!” Richling laid 
his hand on Narcisse’s shoulder and they went at a gait 
quickened by the happy husband’s elation. Narcisse was 
very proud of the touch, and, as they began to traverse 
the vegetable market, took the most populous arcade. 

“Mistoo Itchlin,” he began again, “I muz con- 
gwatolate you! You know I always admiah yo’ lady to 
excess. But appopo of that news, I might infawm you 
some inteUigens consunning myseff.” 

“ Good! ” exclaimed Richling. “ For it’s good news, 
isn’t it?” 

“Yesseh,— as you may say,— yes. Faw in fact, 

Mistoo Itchlin, I ’ave ass Dr. Seveeah to haugment me.” 

“ Hurrah ! ” cried Richling. He coughed and laughed 
and moved aside to a pillar and coughed, until people 
looked at him, and lifted his eyes, tmed but smiling, and, 
paying his compliments to the paroxysm in ore or two ill- 
wishes, wiped his eyes at last, and said : — 

“ And the Doctor augmented you? ” 

“ Well, no, I can’t say that— not p’ecisely ” 

“ Why, what did he doi^” 


aeo 


DR. 8EVIEK. 


“ Well, he ’efuse’ me, in fkct.” 

“ Why — but that isn’t good news, then. ’ 

Narcisse gave his head a bright, argumentative 
twitch. 

“ Yesseh. ’Tis t’ue he ’efuse’; but ad the same time 
— I dunno — I thing he wasn’ so mad about it as he make 
out. An’ you know thass one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, 
whilce they got life they got hope ; and hence I ente’tain 
the same.” 

They had reached that flagged area without covering or 
iiiclosure, before the third of the three old market-houses, 
where those dealers in the entire miscellanies of a house¬ 
wife’s equipment, excepting only stoves and furniture, 
spread their wares and fabrics in the open weather before 
the Bazar market rose to give them refuge. He grew 
suddenly fierce. 

“ But any’ow I don’t care! I had the spunk to ass ’im, 
an’ he din ’ave the spunk to dischawge me I All he can 
do, ’tis to shake the fis’ of impatience.” He was looking 
into his companion’s face, as they walked, with an eye 
distended with defiance. 

“Look out!” exclaimed Richling, reaching a hurried 
hand to draw him aside. Narcisse swerved just in time 
to avoid stepping into a pile of crockery, but in so doing 
went full into the arms of a stately female figure dressed 
in the crispest French calico and embarrassed with num¬ 
erous small packages of dry goods. The bundles flew 
hither and yon. Narcisse tried to catch the largest as he 
saw it going, but only sent it farther than it would have 
gone, and as it struck the ground it burst like a pome¬ 
granate. But the contents were white: little thin, square- 
folded fractions of barred jaconet and white flannel; rolls 
of slender white lutestring ribbon; very narrow paper# 
of tiny white pearl buttons, minute white worsted socka. 


A BUNDLE OF HOPES. 


361 


spools of white floss, cards of safety-pins, pieces of white 
castile soap, etc. 

Mille pardons, madamel** exclaimed Narcisse; “I 
make you a thousan’ poddons, madam I 

He was ill-prepared for the majestic wrath that flashed 
from the eyes and radiated from the whole dilating, and 
subsiding, and reexpanding, and rising, and stiffening 
form of Kate Ristofalo I 

“Officerr,” she panted,— for instantly there was a 
crowd, and a man with the silver-crescent badge was 
switching the assemblage on the legs with his cane to 
make room,— “ Officerr,^* she gasped, levelling her trem¬ 
ulous finger at Narcisse, “ arrist that man! ” 

“Mrs. Ristofalo!” exclaimed Richling, “don’t do that! 
It was all an accident I Why, don’t you see it’s Narcisse, 
— my friend ? ” 

“ Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, sur, he did I 
Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, he did! ” And 
up she went and down she went, shortening and length¬ 
ening, swelling and decreasing. “ Yes, yes, I know yer 
frind ; indeed 1 do ! I paid two dollars and a half fur his 
acquaintans nigh upon three years agone, sur. Yer 
frind ! ” And still she went up and down, enlarging, di¬ 
minishing, heaving her breath and waving her chin 
around, and saying, in broken utterances,— while a hack- 
man on her right held his whip in her auditor’s face, 
crying, “ Carriage, sir? Carriage, sir?”— ; 

“ Why didn’ — he rin agin — a man, sur! T — I — oh 11 
I wish Mr. Ristofalah war heer!— to teach urn how — to 
walk! — Yer frind, sur—ixposing me!” She pointed 
to Narcisse and the policeman gathering up the scattered 
lot of tiny things. Her eyes filled with tears, fc it still 
shot lightning. “ If he’s hurrted me, he’s got ’o suffer 
lor ud, Mr. Richlin’ I ” And she expanded again, 


362 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ Carriage, sir, carriage?** continued the man with the 
whip. 

“ Yes ! ** said Richling and Mrs. Ristofalo in a breath. 
She took his arm, the hackman seized the bundles from 
the policeman, threw open his hack door, laid the bundles 
on the front seat, and let down the folding steps. The 
crowd dwindled away to a few urchins. 

“ OfBcerr,’* said Mrs. Ristofalo, her foot on the step and 
composure once more in her voice, “ ye needn’t arrist 
um. I could of done ud, sur,” she added to Narcisse 
himself, “ but I’m too much of a laydy, sur! ” And she 
sank together and stretched herself up once more, entered 
the vehicle, and sat with a perpendicular back, her arms 
folded on her still heaving bosom, and her head high. 

As to her ability to have that arrest made, Kate Ris 
tofalo was in error. Narcisse smiled to himself; for he 
was conscious of one advantage that overtopped all the 
sacredness of female helplessness, public right, or any 
other thing whatsoever. It lay in the simple fact that he 
was acquainted with the policeman. He bowed blandly 
to the officer, stepped backward, touching his hat, and 
walked away, the policeman imitating each movement with 
the promptness and faithfulness of a mirror.. 

“ Aren’t ye goin’ to get in, Mr. Richlin’?” asked Mrs. 
Ristofalo. She smiled first and then looked alarmed. 

“I — I can’t very well — if you’ll excuse me, ma’am.” 

“ Ah, Mr. Richlin*! ” —she pouted girlishly. “ Gettin’ 
proud! ” She gave her head a series of movements, as tc 
say she might be angry if she would, but she wouldn’t. 
** Ye won’t know uz when Mrs. Richlin’ comes.” 

Richling laughed, but she gave a smiling toss to indi 
cate that it was a serious matter. 

“ Come,” she insisted, patting the seat beside her with 
honeyed persuasiveness, “ come and tell me all about ud 


A BUNDLE OF HOPES. 


363 


Mr. Ristofalah nivver goes into peticklers, an* so I har’ly 
know anny more than jist she’s a-comin*. Come, git in 
an’ tell me about Mrs. Richlin’ — that is, if ye like tha 
subject — and I don’t believe ye do.” She lifted her 
finger, shook it roguishly close to her own face, and looked 
at him sidewise. Ah, nivver mind, sur I that’s rright! 
Furgit yer old frinds — maybe ye wudden’t do ud if ye 
knewn everythin’. But that’s rright; that’s the way with 
min.” She suddenly changed to subdued earnestness, 
turnei the catch of the door, and, as the door swung 
open, said : “ Come, if ud’s only fur a bit o’ the way — if 
ud’s only fur a ming-ute. I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye.’ 

“ I must get out at Washington Market,” said Richling, 
as he got in. The hack hurried down Old Levee street. 

“And now,” said she, merriment dancing in her eyes, 
her folded arms tightening upon her bosom, and her lips 
struggling against their own smile, “ I’m just a good 
mind not to tell ye at ahll! ” 

Her humor was contagious and Richling was ready to 
catch it. His own eye twinkled. 

“W'^'U, Mrs. Ristofalo, of course, if you feel any 
embarrassment ” — 

“ Ye villain! ” she cried, with delighted indignation, 
“ I didn’t mean nawthing about that, an’ ye knew ud I 
Here, git out o’ this carridge ! ” But she made no effort 
to eject him. 

“ Mary and I are interested in all your hopes,” said 
Richling, smiling softly upon the damaged bundle which 
he was making into a tight package again on his knee. 
“ You’ll tell me your good news if it’s only that I may 
tell her, will you not?” 

“ I will. And it’s joost this, — Mr. Richlin’,— that if 
there be’s a war Mr. Ristofalah’s to be lit out o’ prison.” 

“Fm very glad I” cried Richling, but stopped short. 


564 


DR. SEVIER. 


for Mrs. Ristofalo’s growing dignity indicated that there 
was more to be told. 

“ I’m sure ye air, Mr. Riclilin’; and I’m sure ye’ll be 
glad — a heap gladder nor I am — that in that case he’s 
to be Captain Ristofalah.” 

Indeed I ” 

‘ Yes, sur.” The wife laid her pa!m against her 
floating ribs and breathed a sigh. “ I don’t like ud, 
Mr. Richlin’. No, sur. I don’t like tytles.” She 
got her fan from under her handkerchief and set it 
a-going. “ I nivver liked the idee of bein’ a tytled man’s 
wife. No, sur.” She shook her head, elevating it as she 
shook it. “ It creates too much invy, Mr. Richlin’. Well, 
good-by.” The carriage was stopping at the Washington 
Market. “Now, don’t ye mintion it to a livin’ soul, 
Mr. Richlin’! ” 

Richling said “ No.” 

“No, sur; fur there he’s manny a slip ’tuxt the cup 
an’ the lip, ye know ; an’ there may be no war, after all, 
and we may all be disapp’inted. But he’s bound to be 
tleared if he’s tried, and don’t ye see — I — I don’t want 
um to be a captain, anyhow, don’t ye see?” 

Richling saw, and they parted. 

Thus everybody hoped. Dr. Sevier, wifeless, childless, 
had his hopes too, nevertheless. Hopes for the hospital 
and his many patients in it and out of it; hopes for his 
town and his State; hopes for Richling and Mary; and 
hopes with fears, and fears with hopes, for the great 
sisterhood of States. Richling had one hope more. 
After some weeks had passed Dr. Sevier ventured once 
more to say : — 

“ Richling, go home. Go to your wife. I must tell 
you you’re no ordinary sick man. Your life is in danger.’ 


A BUNDLE OF HOPES. 


365 


“ Will I be out of danger if I go home ? ** asked Richling. 

Dr. Sevier made no answer. 

“Do you still think we may have war?” asked Rich- 
ling again. 

“ I know we shall.” 

“ And will the soldiers come back,” asked the young 
man, smilingly, “ when they find their lives in danger?” 

“Now, Richling, that’s another thing entirely; that’s 
the battle-field.” 

“ Isn’t it all the same thing. Doctor? Isn’t it all a bat- 
tie-field?” 

The Doctor turned impatiently, disdaining to reply. 
But in a moment he retorted; — 

“We take wounded men off the field.” 

“ They don’t take themselves off,” said Richling, 
smiling. 

“ Well,” rejoined the Doctor, rising and striding tow¬ 
ard a window, “ a good general may order a retreat.” 

“Yes, but — maybe I oughtn’t to say what I was 
thinking ” — 

“Oh, say it.” 

“ Well, then, he don’t let his surgeon order it. Doc¬ 
tor,” continued Richling, smiling apologetically as his 
friend confronted him, “ jou know, as you say, better 
than any one else, all that Mary and I have gone through 
— nearly all — and how we’ve gone through it. Now, 
if my life should end here shortly, what would the whole^ 
thing mean ? It would mean nothing. Doctor; it would 
be meaningless. No, sir ; this isn’t the end. Mary and 
I” — his voice trembled an instant and then was firm 
again — “ are designed for a long life. I argue from the 
simple fitness of things, — this is not the end.” 

Dr Sevier turned his face quickly toward the window, 
and so remamed. 


366 


DB. SBYIEB. 


CHAPTER L. 


FALL in! 


HERE rame a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, 



^ once the day before, thrice the next day, till by and 
by it was the common thing. High-stepping childhood, 
with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, was not fated, 
as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to the 
corner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty 
barrels rumbling over the cobble-stones. No ; it was the 
Washington Artillery, or the Crescent Rifles, or the 
Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed, 
white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fczzed Zouaves; 
or, better than the best, it was all of them together, their 
captains stepping backward, sword in both hands, calling 

Gauche I gauche I ” (“Left! left!”) “Guide right!” 
— Portez armesT' and facing around again, throwing 
their shining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and 
glancing askance from under their abundant plumes to 
the crowded balconies above. Yea, and the drum-majors 
before, and the brilliant-petticoated vivandieres behind! 

What pomp! what giddy rounds! Pennons, cock- 
feathers, clattering steeds, pealing salvos, banners, 
columns, ladies' favors, balls, concerts, toasts, the Free 
Gift Lottery — don’t you recollect? — and this uniform 
and that uniform, brother a captain, father a colonel, 
uncle a major, the little rector a chaplain. Captain Risto* 
falo of the Tiger Rifles; the levee covered with muni¬ 
tions of war, steamboats unloading troops, troops- troops, 


PALL IN I 


367 


from Opelousas, Attakapas, Texas ; and a supper to this 
company, a flag to that battalion, farewell sermon to the 
Washington Artillery, tears and a kiss to a spurred and 
sashed lover, hurried weddings, — no end of them, — a 
sword to such a one, addresses by such and such, sere¬ 
nades to Miss and to Mademoiselle. 

Soon it will have been a quarter of a century ago! 

And yet — do you not hear them now, coming down 
the broad, granite-paved, moon-lit street, the light that 
was made for lovers glancing on bayonet and sword soon 
to be red with brothers* blood, their brave young hearts 
already lifted up with the triumph of battles to come, and 
the trumpets waking the midnight stillness with the gay 
notes of the Cracovienne? — 

** Again, again, the pealing drum, 

The clashing horn, they come, they come, 

And lofty deeds and daring high 
Blend with their notes of victory.” 

Ah! the laughter; the music; the bravado; the dan¬ 
cing ; the songs ! “ Voila VZouzou / ** “ Dixie I ** “ Aux 
arwi6s, VOS citoyens I ” The Bonnie Blue Flag! ** — it 
wasn’t bonuie very long. Later the maidens at home 
learned to sing a little song, — it is among the missing 
BLOW, a part of it ran: — 

“ Sleeping on grassy couches ; 

Pillowed on hillocks damp; 

Of martial fame how little we know 
Till brothers are in the camp.” 

By and by they began to depart. How many they 
were ! How many, many I We had toe lightly let them 
go. An d when all were gone, and they of CaiDndelet 
street and its tributaries, massed in that old gray, brittlv 


368 


DR. SEVIER. 


shanked regiment, the Confederate Guards, were having 
their daily dress parade in Coliseum place, and only they 
and the Foreign Legion remained ; when sister Jane made 
lint, and flour was high, and the sounds of commerce 
were quite hushed, and in the custom-house gun-carriages 
were a-making, and in the foundries big guns were being 
cast, and the cotton gun-boats and the rams were build¬ 
ing, and at the rotting wharves the masts of a few empty 
ships stood like dead trees in a blasted wilderness, and 
poor soldiers’ wives crowded around the “ Free Market,” 
and grass began to spring up in the streets, — they were 
many still, while far away; but some marched no more, 
and others marched on bleeding feet, in rags ; and it was 
very, very hard for some of us to hold the voice steady 
and sing on through the chorus of the little song: — 

“ Brave boys are they I 

Gtone at their country’s call. 

And yet— and yet — we cannot forget 
That many brave boys must fall.” 

Oh I Shiloh, Shiloh! 

But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was 
a gay dream. 

“Mistoo Itchlin, in fact ’ow you ligue my uniefawm? 
You think it suit my style? They got about two poun’ 
of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh. Me, the h-only 
thing — I don’ligue those epaulette*. So soon ev’ybody 
^ see that on me, ’tis ‘ Lieut’nan’ I ’ in thiz place, an’ ‘ Lieut* 
’nan’! ’ in that place. My de’seh, you’d thing I’m a 
Eoiajo’-gen’l, in fact. Well, of co’se, I don’ ligue that.” 

“ And so you’re a lieutenant ? ” 

“ Third I Of the Chasseurs-d-Pied I Coon he’p ’t, in 
fact; the fellehs elected me. Goin’ at Pensacola to- 
maw. Dr. Seveeah continue my sala’y whilce Pm gone. 


FALL mT 


369 


no matteh the len’th. Me, I don* care, so long the sala’y 
continue, if that waugh las* ten yeah I You ah pe’hapa 
goin* ad the ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno ow 
’tis — I suppose you’ll be aztonizh* w’en I infawm you — 
that ball wemine me of that battle of Wattalool Did 
you evva yeh those line’ of Lawd By’on, — 

‘ Theh was a soun’ of wibalwy by night, 

W’eii — ’Ush-’ark I — A deep sann* stwike * —f 


'Thaz by Lawd By*on. Yesseh. Well** — 

The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its 
inner edge against the brass buttons of his k^i, and 
then waved it gracefully abroad : — 

“ Au *6^01*, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen* the 
city.’* 

“ To-morrow,** in those days of unreadiness and dis¬ 
connection, glided just beyond reach continually. When 
at times its realization was at length grasped, it was 
away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther. 
However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last. 

A quiet order for attention runs down the column. 
Attention it is. Another order follows, higher-keyed, 
longer drawn out, and with one sharp “ clack I ’* the 
sword-bayoneted rifles go to the shoulders of as fine a 
battalion as any in the land of Dixie. 

“ En avant!** — Narcisse*s heart stands still for joy — 
‘Marche!*^ 

The bugle rings, the drums beat; “tramp, tramp,** in 
quick succession, go the short-stepping, nimble Creole 
feet, and the old walls of the Rue Chartres ring again 
with the pealing huzza, as they rang in the days of Vil 
ler 4 and Lafr 4 ni(ire, and in the days of the young Galvez^ 
and in the days of Jackson. 


S70 


DR. SEVIER. 


The old Ponchartrain cars move off, packed. Down 
at the “Old Lake End’’the steamer for Mobile re¬ 
ceives the burden. The gong clangs in her engine- 
room, the walking-beam silently stirs, there is a hiss of 
water underneath, the gang-plank is in, the wet hawser- 
ends whip through the hawse-holes, — she moves; clang 
goes the gong again — she glides — or is it the crowded 
wharf that is gliding? — No. — Snatch the kisses ! snatch 
them ! Adieu! Adieu ! She’s oflf, huzza — she’s off I 
Now she stands away. See the mass of gay colors — 
red, gold, blue, yellow, with glitter of steel and flutter of 
flags, a black veil of smoke sweeping over. Wave, 
mothers and daughters, wives, sisters, sweethearts — 
wave, wave; you little know the future! 

And now she is a little thing, her white wake following 
her afar across the green waters, the call of the bugle 
floating softly back. And now she is a speck. And 
now a little smoky stain against the eastern blue is all, — 
and now she is gone. Gone ! Gone I 
Farewell, soldier boys I Light-hearted, little-forecast¬ 
ing, brave, merry boys I God accept you, our offering 
of first fruits I See that mother — that wife — take them 
away; it is too much. Comfort them, father, brother; 
tell them their tears may be for naught. 

“ And yet — and yet — we cannot forget 
That many brave boys must fall.” 

Never so glad a day had risen upon the head of Nar- 
cisse. For the first time in his life he moved beyond the 
corporate limits of his native town. 

“ ‘ Ezeape fum the aunt, thou sluggud 1 * ” “ Au 

evoi”* to his aunt and the uncle of his aunt. Au 
tvoV ! Au — desk, pen, book — work, ca*s 


FALL IN 1 


371 


thought, restraint — all sinking, sinking beneath the re¬ 
ceding horizon of Lake Ponchartrain, and the wide world 
and a soldier’s life before him. 

Farewell, Byronic youth I You are not of so frail a 
stuff as you have seemed. You shall thirst by day and 
hunger by night. You shall keep vigil on the sands of 
the (rulf and on the banks of the Potomac. You shall 
grow brown, but prettier. You shall shiver in loathsome 
tatter-s, yet keep j^our grace, your courtesy, your joyous- 
noss. You shall ditch and lie down in ditches, and shall 
sing your saucy songs of defiance in the face of the foe, 
so blackened with powder and dust and smoke that your 
mother in heaven would not know her child. And you 
shall borrow to your heart’s content chickens, hogs, rails, 
milk, buttermilk, sweet potatoes, what not; and shall 
learn the American songs, and by the camp-fire of Shen¬ 
andoah valley sing “Theyears creep slowly by, Lorena” 
to messmates with shaded eyes, and “Her bright smile 
launts me still.” Ah, boy! there’s an old woman still 
living in the Rue Casa Calvo — your bright smile haunts 
her still. And there shall be blood on your sword, and 
blood — twice — thrice — on your brow. Your captain 
shall die in your arms; and you shall lead charge after 
charge, and shall step up from rank to rank; and all at 
once, one day, just in the final onset, with the cheer on 
your lips, and your red sword waving high, with but one 
lightning stroke of agony, down, down you shall go ir th« 
death of your dearest choice. 


372 


DR. SEVIER. 


CHAPTER LI. 


BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. 

NE morning, about the Ist of June, 1861, in th« 



Vy city of New York, two men of the mercantile class 
came from a cross street into Broadway, near what was 
then the upper region of its wholesale stores. They 
paused on the corner, near the edge of the sidewalk. 

“ Even when the States were seceding,” said one of 
them, “ I couldn’t make up my mind that they really meant 
to break up the Union.” 

He had rosy cheeks, a retreating chin, and amiable, 
inquiring eyes. The other had a narrower face, alert 
ej'es, thin nostrils, and a generally aggressive look. He 
did not reply at once, but, after a quick glance down the 
great thoroughfare and another one up it, said, while 
his eyes still ran here and there: — 

“ Wonderful street, this Broadway I ” 

He straightened up to his fullest height and looked 
again, now down the way, now up, his eye kindling with 
the electric contagion of the scene. His senses were all 
awake. They took in, with a spirit of welcome, all the 
vast movement: the uproar, the feeling of unbounded 
multiMe, the commercial splendor, the miles of towering 
buildings; the long, writhing, grinding mass of coming 
and gting vehicles, the rush of innumerable feet, and 
the countless forms and faces hurrying, dancing, gliding 
by, as though all the world’s mankind, and womankind, 
and childhood must pass that way before night. 


BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. 373 


“ How many people, do you suppose, go by this cornet 
in a single hour?*^ asked the man with the retreating chin. 
But again he got no answer. He might as well not have 
yielded the topic of conversation as he had done; so he 
resumed it. “ No, I didn’t believe it,” he said. “ Why, 
look at the Southern vote of last November — look at 
New Orleans. The way it went there, I shouldn’t have 
supposed twenty-five per cent, of the people would be in 
favor of secession. Would you? ” 

But his companion, instead of looking at New Orleans, 
took note of two women who had come to a halt within a 
yard of them and seemed to be waiting, as he and his 
companion were, for an opportunity to cross the street. 
The two new-comers were very different in appearance, 
the one from the other. The older and larger was much 
beyond middle life, red, fat, and dressed in black stuff, 
good as to fabric, but uncommonly bad as to fit. The 
other was young and pretty, refined, tastefully dressed, and 
only the more ii.teresting for the look of permanent anx¬ 
iety that asserted itself with distinctness about the earners 
of her eyes and mouth. She held by the hand a rosy, 
chubby little child, that seemed about three years old, and 
might be a girl or might be a boy, so far as could be 
discerned by masculine eyes. The man did not see this 
fifth member of their group until the elder woman caught 
it under the arras in her large hands, and, lifting it above 
her shoulder, said, looking far up the street: — 

“ O paypy, paypy, choost look de fla-ags ! One, two, 
dtree, — a tuzzent, a hundut, a dtowsant fla-ags ! ” 
Evidently the child did not know her well. The little 
face remained without a smile, the lips sealed, the shoul¬ 
ders drawn up, and the legs pointing straight to the spot 
whence they had been lifted. She set it down again. 

“ We’re not going to get by here,” said the less talxa 


374 


DR. SEVIER. 


tive man. “ They must be expecting some troops to pass 
here. Don’t you see the windows full of women and 
children ? ” 

“Let’s wait and look at them,” responded the other, 
and his companion did not dissent. 

“Well, sir,” said the more communicative one, after 
a moment’s contemplation, “ I never expected to see 
this I ” He indicated by a gesture the stupendous life of 
Broadway beginning slowly to roll back upon itself like 
an obstructed river. It was obviously gathering in a 
general pause to concentrate its attention upon something 
of leading interest about to appear to view. “ We’re in 
earnest at last, and we can see, now, that the South was 
in the deadest kind of earnest from the word go.” 

“ They can’t be anymore in earnest than we are, now,” 
said the more decided speaker. 

“ I had great hopes of the peace convention,” said the 
rosier man. 

“ I never had a bit,” responded the other. 

“The suspense was awful — waiting to know what 
Lincoln would do when he came in,” said he of the poor 
chin. “ My wife was in the South visiting her relatives ; 
and we kept putting off her return, hoping for a quieter 
state of affairs—hoping and putting off—till first thing 
you knew the lines closed down and she had the hardest 
kind of a job to get through.” 

“ I never had a doubt as to what Lincoln would do,” 
said the man with sharp eyes; but while he spoke he 
covertly rubbed his companion’s elbow with his own, and 
by his glance toward the younger of the two women gave 
him to understand that, though her face was partly turned 
away, the very pretty ear, with no ear-ring in the hole 
pierced for it, was listening. And the readier speaker 
rejoined in a suppressed voice: — 


BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. 375 


“ That’s the little lady I travelled in the same car with 
all the way from Chicago.” 

“ No times for ladies to be ti'avelling alone,” muttered 
the ither. 

‘' She hoped to take a steam-ship for New Orleans, to 
join her husband there.” 

“ Some rebel fellow, I suppose.” 

“ No, a Union man, she says.” 

“ Oh, of course! ” said the sharp-eyed one, sceptically. 
“ Well, she’s missed it. The last steamer’s gone and 
may get back or may not.” He looked at her again, 
narrowly, from behind his companion’s shoulder. She 
was stooping slightly toward the child, rearranging some 
tie under its lifted chin and answering its questions in 
what seemed a chastened voice. He murmured to his 
fellow, “ How do you know she isn’t a spy?” 

The other one turned upon him a look of pure amuse¬ 
ment, but, seeing the set lips and earnest eye of his 
companion, said softly, with a faint, scouting hiss and 
smile: — 

“ She’s a perfect lady — a perfect one.” 

“ Her friend isn’t,” said the aggressive man. 

“ Here they come,” observed the other aloud, looking 
up the street. There was a general turning of attention 
and concentration of the F;treet’s population toward the 
edge of either sidewalk. A force of police was clearing 
back into the by-streets a dense tangle of drays, wagons, 
carriages, and white-topped omnibuses, and far up the 
way could be seen the fluttering and tossing of handker¬ 
chiefs, and in the midst a solid mass of blue with a sheen 
of baj'onets above, and every now and then a brazen reflec¬ 
tion from in front, where the martial band marched before. 
It was not playing. The ear caught distantly, instead of 
its notes, the warlike thunder of the drum corps. 


676 


DK. 8EVIEK. 


The shaq^er man nudged his companion mysteriouslj* 

“Listen,” he whispered. Neither they nor the other 
pair had materially changed their relative positions. The 
older woman was speaking. 

“ Twas te fun’est dting! You pe lookin’ for te 
Noo ’Leants shteamer, undt me lookin’ for te Hambourg 
shteamer, undt coompt right so togeder undt never 
vouldn’t ’a’ knowedt udt yet, ovver te mayne exdt me, 
‘ Misses Reisen, vot iss your name?’ undt you headt udt. 
Undt te minudt you shpeak, udt choost come to me 
like a flash o’ lightenin’ — ‘Udt iss Misses Richlin’ I ’ ” 
The speakei’’s companion gave her such attention as one 
may give in a crowd to words that have been heard two 
or three times already within the hour. 

“ Yes, Alice,” she said, once or twice to the little one, 
who pulled softly at her skirt asking confidential questions. 
But the baker’s widow went on with her story, enjoying 
it for its own sake. 

“You know, Mr. Richlin he told me finfty dtimes, 
♦ Misses Reisen, doant kif up te pissness ! ’ Ovver I see 
te mutcheenery proke undt te foundtries all makin’ guns 
undt kennons, undt I choost says, ‘ 1 kot plenteh moneh 
— 1 tdtink I kfit undt go home.’ Ovveij I sayss to de 
Doctor, ‘ Dte oneh dting — vot Mr. Richlin’ ko-in to tdo? ” 
Undt Dr. Tseweer he sayss, ‘ How menneh pa’ls flour you 
kot shtowed away? ’ Undt 1 sayss, ‘ Tsoo hundut finfty. 
Undt he sayss, ‘ Misses Reisen, Mr. Richlin’ done made you 
rich ; you choost kif urn dtat flour ; udt be wort’ tweny-fife 
toUahs te pa’l, yet.’ Undt sayss I, ‘Doctor, ycu’ right, 
undt I dtank you for te goodt idea; 1 kif Mr. Richlin' 
innahow one pa’l.’ Undt I done-d it. Ower 1 sayss, 

‘ Doctor, dtat’s not like a rigler sellery, yet.’ Undt dten 
he sayss, ‘ You know, mine pookkeeper he gone to te vor, 
undt 1 need” — 


BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. 377 

A crash of brazen music burst upon the ear and drowned 
the voice. The throng of the sidewalk pushed hard upon 
its edge. 

“ Let me hold the little girl up,” ventured the milder 
man, and set her gently upon his shoulder, as amidst a 
confusion of outcries and flutter of hats and handkerchiefs 
the broad, dense column came on with measured tread, 
its stars and stripes waving in the breeze and its back¬ 
ward-slanting thicket of bayoneted arms glittering in the 
morning sun. All at once there arose from the great 
column, in harmony with the pealing music, the hoarse 
roar of the soldiers* own voices singing in time to the 
rhythm of their tread. And a thrill runs through the 
people, and they answer with mad huzzas and frantic 
wavings and smiles, half of wild ardor and half of wild 
pain ; and the keen-eyed man here by Mary lets the tears 
roll down his cheeks unhindered as he swings his hat and 
cries ‘‘Hurrah! hurrah!*’ while on tramps the mighty 
column, singing from its thousand thirsty throats the song 
of John Brown’s Body. 

Yea, so, soldiers of the Union, — though that little 
mother there weeps but does not wave, as the sharp-eyed 
man notes well through his tears, — yet even so, yea, all 
the more, go — “go marching on,” saviors of the Union ; 
your cause is just. Lo, now, since nigh twenty-five yeari 
have passed, we of the South can say it I 

** And yet — and yet, we cannot fcrget ” — 


and we would not. 


378 


DB. SBYISB. 


CHAPTER LH. 

A PASS THROUGH THE LINES. 

A bout the middle of September following the dat« 
of the foregoing incident, there occurred in a farm¬ 
house head-quarters on the Indiana shore of the Ohio 
river the following conversation : — 

“ You say you wish, me to give you a pass through the 
lines, ma’am. Why do you wish to go through? ” 

“ I want to join my husband in New Orleans.” 

“ Why, ma’am, you’d much better let New Orleans 
come through the lines. We shall have possession of it, 
most likely, within a month.” The speaker smiled very 
pleasantly, for very pleasant and sweet was the young 
face before him, despite its lines of mental distress, and 
very soft and melodious the voice that proceeded from 
it. 

“Do you think so?” replied the applicant, with an 
unhopeful smile. “ My friends have been keeping me at 
home for months on that idea, but the fact seems as far 
off now as ever. I should go straight through without 
stopping, if I had a pass.” 

“ Ho! ” exclaimed the man, softly, with pitying amuse¬ 
ment. “Certainly, I understand you would try to do so. 
But, my dear madam, you would find yourself very much 
mistaken. Suppose, now, we should let you through our 
lines. You’d be between two fires. You’d still have to 
get into the rebel lines. You don’t know what you’re 
undertaking.” 


A PASS THROUGH THE LINES. 


379 


She smiled wistfully. 

“ I’m undertaking to get to my husband.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the oflScer, pulling his handkerchief 
from between two brass buttons of his double-breasted 
coat and wiping his brow. She did not notice that he 
made this motion purely as a cover for the searching 
glance which he suddenly gave her from head to foot. 
‘ Yes,” he continued, “ but you don’t know what it is, 
ma’am. After you get through the other lines, what are 
you going to do then? There’s a perfect reign of terror 
over there. I wouldn’t let a lady relative of mine take 
such risks for thousands of dollars. I don’t think your 
husband ought to thank me for giving you a pass. You 
say he’s a Union man ; why don’t he come to you?” 

Tears leaped into the applicant’s eyes. 

“ He’s become too sick to travel,” she said. 

“ Lately?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I thought you said you hadn’t heard from him for 
months.” The officer looked at her with narrowed eyes. 

“ 1 said I hadn’t had a letter from him.” The speaker 
blushed to find her veracity on trial. She bit her lip, and 
added, with perceptible tremor; “I got one lately from 
his physician.” 

“ How did you get it? ” 

“ What, sir? ” 

“ Now, madam, you know what I asked you, don’t 
you?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Yes. Well, I’d like you to answer.” 

“ I found it, three mornings ago, under the front door 
of the house where I live with my mother and my littl« 
girl.” 

* WTio put it there?” 


380 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ I do not know.” 

The officer looked her steadily in the eyes. They were 
blue. His own dropped. 

“ You ought to have brought that letter with you, 
ma’am,” he said, looking up again; “ don’t you see how 
valuable it would be to you ? ” 

1 did bring it,” she replied, with alacrity, rummaged 
a moment in a skirt-pocket, and brought it out. The 
officer received it and read the superscription audibly. 

‘‘ ‘ Mrs. John H-.’ Are you Mrs. John H- ? ” 

“ That is not the envelope it was in,” she replied. 
“ It was not directed at all. I put it into that envelope 
merely to preserve it. That’s the envelope of a different 
letter, — a letter from my mother.” 

“Are you Mrs. John H-?” asked her questioner 

again. She had turned partly aside and was looking 
across the apartment and out through a window. He 
spoke once more. “Is this your name?” 

“ What, sir? ” 

He smiled cynically. 

“ Please don’t do that again, madam.” 

She blushed down into the collar of her dress. 

“ That is my name, sir.” 

The man put the missive to his nose, snuffed it softly, 
and looked amused, yet displeased. 

“ Mrs. H-, did you notice just a faint smell of— 

garlic — about this — ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, I have no less than three or four others with 
the very same odor.” He smiled on. “ And so, no 
doubt, we are both of the same private opinion that the 
bearer of this letter was — who, Mrs. H- ? ” 

Mrs. H-frequently by turns raised her eyes hon* 

estly to her questioner’s and dropped them to where, m 



A PASS THROUGH THE LINES. 


381 


her lap, the fingers of one hand fumbled with a lone 
wedding-ring on the other, while she said: — 

“ Do you think, sir, if 3 ’ou were in my place you would 
like to give the name of the person you thought had risked 
his life to bring you word that j’our husband — your wife 
— was very ill, and needed your presence? Would you 
like to do it? ” 

The officer looked severe. 

“ Don’t you know perfectly well that wasn’t his princi¬ 
pal errand inside our lines ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ No! ” echoed the man ; “ and you don’t know per¬ 
fectly well, I suppose, that he’s been shot at along this 
line times enough to have turned his hair white? Or 
that he crossed the river for the third time last night, 
loaded down with musket-caps for the rebels?” 

“ No.” 

“But you must admit you know a certain person, 
wherever he may be, or whatever he may be doing, named 
Raphael Ristofalo?” 

“ I do not.” 

The officer smiled again. 

“ Yes, I see. That is to say, you don’t admit it. And 
you don’t den}" it.” 

The reply came more slowly: — 

“ I do not.” 

“ Well, now, Mrs. H-, I’ve given you a prett} 

long audience. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. But do you 
please tell me, first, you affirm on your word of honoi 

that your name is really Mrs. 11- ; that you are no 

spy, and have had no voluntary communication with any. 
and that you are a tme and sincere Union woman.” 

“ I affirm it all.” 

“ Well, then, come in to-morrow at this hour, and if ] 



382 


DB. SBVIEB. 


am going to give you a pass at all I’ll give it to you then 
Here, here’s your letter.” 

As she received the missive she lifted her eyes, suffused, 
but full of hope, to his, and said: — 

“ God grant you the heart to do it, sir, and bless 
you.” 

The man laughed. Her eyes fell, she blushed, and, 
saying not a word, turned toward the door and had 
reached the threshold when the officer called, with a 
certain ringing energy : — 

“ Mrs. Richling!” 

She wheeled as if he had struck her, and answered; — 

“What, sir!” Then, turning as red as a rose, she 
said, “O sir, that was cruel!” covered her face with 
her hands, and sobbed aloud. It was only as she was in 
the midst of these last words that she recognized in the 
officer before her the sharper-visaged of those two men 
who had stood by her in Broadway. 

“ Step back here, Mrs. Richling.” 

She came. 

“Well, madam! I should like to know what we are 
coming to, when a lady like you — a palpable, undoubted 
lady — can stoop to such deceptions ! ” 

“ Sir,” said Mary, looking at him steadfastly and then 
shaking her head in solemn asseveration, “ all that I have 
^id to you is the truth.” 

“ Then will you explain how it is that you go by one 
name in one part of the country, and by another in 
another part? ” 

“ No,” she said. It was very hard to speak. Th« 
twitching of her mouth would hardly let her form a vrord. 
“ No — no — I can’t — tell you.” 

“ Very well, ma’am. If you don’t start back to Mil¬ 
waukee by the next train, and stay there, I shall ” — 


A PASS THROUGH THE LINES. 


383 


“ Oh, don’t say that, sir I I must go to my husband i 
Indeed, sir, it’s nothing but a foolish mistake, made years 
ago, that’s never harmed any one but us. I’ll take all the 
blame of it if you’ll only give me a pass I ” 

The oflScer motioned her to be silent, 

“ You’ll have to do as I tell you, ma’am. If not, I 
shall know it; you will be arrested, and I shall give you 
a sort of pass that you’d be a long time asking for.” He 
looked at the face mutely confronting him and felt himself 
relenting. “ I dare say this does sound very cruel to you, 
ma’am ; but remember, this is a cruel war. I don’t judge 
you. If I did, and could harden my heart as I ought to. 
I’d have you arrested now. But, I say, you’d better take 
my advice. Good-morning! No, ma'am, I can't hear 
you I So, now, that’s enough! Good-morning, madasiP 


BK. SHYIBB. 


as4 


/ 


CH/LPTER Lm. 

TRT AGAIN. 

O NE afternoon in the month of February, 1862, a 
locomotive engine and a single weather-beaten pas¬ 
senger-coach, moving southward at a very moderate speed 
through the middle of Kentucky, stopped in response to a 
handkerchief signal at the southern end of a deep, rocky 
valley, and, in a patch of gray, snow-flecked woods, took 
on board Mary Richling, dressed in deep mourning, and 
her little Alice. The three or four passengers already in 
the coach saw no sign of human life through the closed 
panes save the roof of one small cabin that sent up its 
slender thread of blue smoke at one corner of a little 
badly cleared field a quarter of a mile away on a huge 
hill-side. As the scant train crawled off again into a 
deep, ice-hung defile, it passed the silent figure of a man 
in butternut homespun, spattered with dry mud, standing 
close beside the track on a heap of cross-tie cinders and 
fire-bent railroad iron, a gray goat-beard under his chin, 
and a quilted homespun hat on his head. From beneath 
the limp brim of this covering, as the train moved by him, 
a tender, silly smile beamed upward toward cnc hastily 
raised window, whence the smile of Mary and the grave, 
unemotional gaze of the child met it for a moment before 
the train swung round a curve in the narrow way, and 
quickened speed on down grade. 

The conductor came and collected her fare. He smelt 
0 * tobacco above the smell of the coach in general. 


TRY AGAIN. 


386 


“Do you charge anything for the little girl?” 

The purse in which the inquirei^s finger and thumb 
tarried was limber and flat, 

“ No, ma’am.” 

It was not the customary official negative; a tawdry 
benevolence of face went with it, as if to say he did not 
charge because he would not; and when Mary returned a 
faint beam of appreciation he went out upon the reai 
platform and wiped the plenteous dust from his shoulders 
and cap. Then he returned to his seat at the stove and 
renewed his conversation with a lieutenant in hard-used 
blue, who said “ the rebel lines ought never to have been 
allowed to fall back to Nashville,” and who knew “ how 
Grant could have taken Fort Donelson a week ago if he 
had had any sense.” 

There were but few persons, as we have said, in the car. 
A rough man in one corner had a little captive, a tiny, 
dappled fawn, tied by a short, rough bit of rope to the 
foot of the car-seat. When the conductor by and by 
lifted the little Alice up from the cushion, where she sal 
with her bootees straight in front of her at its edge, and 
carried her, speechless and drawn together like a kitten, 
and stood her beside the captive orphan, she simply turned 
about and pattered back to her mother’s side. 

“ I don’t believe she even saw it,” said the conductor, 
standing again by Mary. 

“ Yes, she did,” replied Mary, smiling upon the child’s 
head as she smoothed its golden curls; “ she’ll talk about 
it to-morrow.” 

The conductor lingered a moment, wanting to put his 
own hand there, but did not venture, perhaps because of 
the person sitting on the next seat behind, who looked at 
him rather steadily until he began to move away. 

This was a man of slender, commanding figure and 


386 


DR. SEVIER. 


advanced years. Beside him, next the window, sat a 
decidedly aristocratic woman, evidently his wife. She, 
too, was of fine stature, and so, without leaning forward 
from the back of her seat, or unfolding her arms, she 
could make kind eyes to Alice, as the child with growing 
frequency stole glances, at first over her own little 
shoulder, and later over her mother’s, facing backward 
and kneeling on the cushion. At length a cooky passed 
between them in dead silence, and the child turned and 
gazed mutely in her mother’s face, with the cooky just in 
sight. ; 

“ It can’t hurt Ifer,” said the lady, in a sweet voice, to 
Mary, leaning forward with her hands in her lap. By the 
time the sun began to set in a cool, golden haze across 
some wide stretches of rolling fallow, a conversation had 
sprung up, and the child was in the lady’s lap, her little 
hand against the silken bosom, playing with a costly 
watch. 

The talk began about the care of Alice, passed to the 
diet, and then to the government, of children, all in a light 
way, a similarity of convictions pleasing the two ladies 
more and more as they fou^ it run further and further. 
Both talked, but the strange lady sustained the con¬ 
versation, although it was plainly both a pastime and a 
comfort to Mary. Whenever it threatened to fiag the 
handsome stranger persisted in reviving it. 

Her husband only listened and smiled, and with one 
finger made every now and then a soft, slow pass at Alice, 
who each time shrank as slowly and softly back into his 
wife’s fine arm. Presently, however, Mary raised her 
eyebrows a little and smiled, to see her sitting quietly in 
the gentleman’s lap; and as she turned away and rested 
her elbow on the yWindow-sill and her cheek on her hand 
In a manner "hat betrayed weariness, and looked out 


TRT AGAIN. 


387 


npon the ever-turning landscape, he murmured to hi^ 
wife, “I haven't a doubt in my mind," and nodded sig¬ 
nificantly at the preoccupied little shape in his arms. His 
manner with the child was imperceptibly adroit, and very 
soon her prattle began to be heard. Mary was just 
turning io offer a gentle check to this rising volubility, 
when up jumped the little one to a standing posture on the 
gentleman’s knee, and, all unsolicited and with silent 
clapping of hands, plumped out her full name; — 

‘‘ Alice Sevier Witchlin’! ’’ 

The husband threw a quick glance toward his wife ; but 
sWaVoided it and called Mary’s attention to the sunset as 
seen through the opposite windows. Mary looked and re¬ 
sponded with expressions of admiration, bfit was visibly 
disquieted, and the next moment called her child to her. 

“My little girl mustn’t talk so loud and fast in the 
cars,’’ she said, with tender pleasantness, standing her 
upon the seat and brushing back the stray golden waves 
from the baby’s temples, and the brown ones, so like them, 
from her own. She turned a look of amused apology to 
the gentleman, and added, “She gets almost boisterous 
sometimes,’’ then gave her regard jonce more to her off¬ 
spring, seating the little one beside h^r as in the beginning, 
and answering her musical small questions with com¬ 
posing yeas and nays. 

“ I suppose,’’ she said, after a pause and a look out 
through the window,— “ I suppose we ought soon to be 
reaching M-station, now, should we not?’’ 

“What, in Tennessee? Ohl no,’’ replied the gentle¬ 
man. “ In ordinary times we should; but at this slow 
rate we cannot nearly do it. We’re on a road, you see, 
that was destroyed by the retreating army and made over 
by the Union forces. Besides, there are three trains of 
troops ahead of us, that must stop and unload betweer 


388 


DR. SEVIER. 


here and there, and keep you waiting, there’s no telling 
how long.” 

“Then I’ll get there in the night I” exclaimed 
Mary. 

“ Yes, probably after midnight.” 

“ Oh, I shouldn’t have thought of coming before to¬ 
morrow if I had known that I ” In the extremity of her 
dismay she rose half from her seat and looked around 
with alarm. 

“ Have you no friends expecting to receive you there?” 
asked the lady. 

“ Not a soul I And the conductor says there’s no 
lodging-place nearer than three miles ” — 

“ And that’s gone now,” said the gentleman. 

“You’ll have to get out at the same station with us,” 
sa.J the lady, her manner kindness itself and at the same 
time absolute. 

“ I think you have claims on us, anyhow, that we’d like 
to pay.” 

“Oh! impossible,” said Mary. “You’re certainly 
mistaking me.” 

“I think you have,” insisted the lady; “that is, if 
your name is Richling.” 

Mary blushed. 

“I don’t think you know my husband,” she said; “he 
lives a long wa}' from here.” 

“ In New Orleans? ” asked the gentleman. 

“Yes, sir,” said Mary, boldly. She couldn’t fear 
such good faces. 

“ His first name is John, isn’t it? ” 

“Yes, sir. Do you really know John, sir?” The 
lines of pleasure and distress mingled strangely in Mary’s 
face. The gentleman smiled. He tapped little Alice’s 
head with the tips of his fingers. 


TRY AGAIN. 


389 


“I used to hold him on my knee when he was no 
bigger than this little image of him here.” 

The tears leaped into Mary’s eyes. 

“ Mr. Thornton,” she whispered, huskily, and could say 
no more. 

“You must come home with us,” said the lady, 
touching her tenderly on the shoulder. “It’s a wonder 
of good fortune that we’ve met. Mr. Thornton has some* 
thing to say to j^ou, — a matter of business. He’s the 
family’s lawyer, you know.” 

“ I must get to my husband without delay,” said 
Mary. 

“ Get to your husband?” asked the lawyer, in aston¬ 
ishment. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Through the lines ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ I told him so,” said the lady. 

“ I don’t know how to credit it,” said he. “ Why, my 
child, I don’t think you can possibly know what you are 
attempting. Your friends ought never to have allowed 
you to conceive such a thing. You must let us dissuade 
3 ^ou. It will not be taking too much liberty, will it? 
Has your husband never told you what good friends we 
w^ere?” 

Mary nodded and tried to speak. 

“ Often,” said Mrs. Thornton to her husband, inter¬ 
preting the half-articulated reply. 

They sat and talked in low tones, under the dismal 
lamp of the railroad coach, for two or three hours. Mr. 
Thornton came around and took the seat in front of 
Mary, and sat with one leg under him, facing back toward 
her. Mrs. Thornton sat beside her, and Alice slumbered 
on the seat behind, vacated by the lawyer and his wife. 


39C 


DR. SEVIER. 


“ You needn’t tell me John’s story,” said the gentleman ; 
“ I know it. What I didn’t know before, I got from a 
man with whom I corresponded in New Orleans.” 

“ Dr. Sevier? ” 

“ No, a man who got it from the Doctor.” 

So they had Mary tell her own story. 

‘‘ I thought I should start just as soon as my mother’s 
nealth would permit. John wouldn’t have me start 
before that, and, after all, I don’t see how I could have 
done it—rightly. But by the time she was well — oi 
partly well — every one was in the greatest anxiety 
and doubt everywhere. You know how it was.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Thornton. 

“And everybody thinking everything would soon be 
settled,” continued Mary. 

“Yes,” said the sympathetic lady, and her husband 
touched her quietly, meaning for her not to interrupt. 

“ We didn’t think the Union could be broken so easily,” 
pursued Mary. “ And then all at once it was unsafe and 
improper to travel alone. Still I went to New York, to 
take steamer around by sea. But the last steamer had 
sailed, and I had to go back home ; for — the fact is,” — 
she smiled,—“my money was all gone. It was Sep¬ 
tember before I could raise enough to start again; but 
one morning I got a letter from New Orleans, telling me 
that John was very ill, and enclosing money for me to 
travel with.” 

She went on to tell the story of her efforts to get a pi.ss 
on the bank of the Ohio river, afid how she had gone 
home once more, knowing she was watched, not daring 
for a long time to stir abroad, and feeding on the frequent 
hope that New Orleans was soon to be taken by one or 
another of the many naval expeditions that from time to 
time were, or were said to be, sailing. 


TET AGAIN. 


391 


“ And then suddenly — my mother died.” 

Mrs. Thornton gave a deep sigh. 

“ And then,” said Mary, with a sudden brightening, 
but in a low voice, “ I determined to make one last 
effort. I sold everything in the world I had and took 
Alice and started. IVe come very slowly, a little way at 
a time, feeling along, for I was resolved not to be turned 
back. I’ve been weeks getting this far, and the lines 
keep moving south ahead of me. But I haven’t been 
turned back,” she went on to say, with a smile, “ and 
everybody, white and black, everywhere, has been just as 
kind as kind can be.” Tears stopped her again. 

“ "Well, never mind, Mrs. Richling,” said Mrs. Thornton; 
then turned to her husband, and asked, “ May I tell 
her?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Richling, —but do you wish to be called 
Mrs. Richling? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, and “ Certainly,” said Mr. Thorn¬ 
ton. 

“ Well, Mrs. Richling, Mr. Thornton has some money 
for your husband. Not a great deal, but still — some. 
The younger of the two sisters died a few weeks ago. 
She was married, but she was rich in her own right. She 
left almost everything to her sister; but Mr. Thornton 
persuaded her to leave some money — well, two thousand 
— ’tisn’t much, but it’s something, you know — to — ah 
to Mr. Richling. Husband has it now at home and will 
give it to you, — at the breakfast-table to-morrow morn¬ 
ing ; can’t you, dear?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes, and we’ll not try to persuade you to give up 
your idea of going to New Orleans. I know we couldn’t 
do it. We’ll watch our chance,—eh, husband? — and 


892 


DR. SEVIER. 


pul you through the lines; and not only that, but give 
you letters to — why, dear,’* said the lady, turning to her 
partner in good works, “you can give Mrs. Richling a 
letter to Governor Blank ; and another to General Um-hiUj 
can’t you? and — yes, and one to Judge Yoakuow. 
Oh, they will take you anywhere I But first you’ll stop 
with us till you get well rested — a week or two, or as 
much longer as you will.” 

Mary pressed the speaker’s hand. 

“ I can’t stay.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, you know you needn’t have the least fear of 
seeing any of John’s relatives. They don’t live in this 
part of the State at all; and, even if they did, husband 
has no business with them just now, and being a Union 
man, you know” — 

“ I want to see my husband,” said Mary, not waiting 
to hear what Union sympathies had to do with the 
matter. 

“Yes,” said the lady, in a suddenly subdued tone. 
“ Well, we’ll get you through just as quickly as we can.” 
And soon they all began to put on wraps and gather their 
luggage. Mary went with them to their home, laid her 
tired head beside her child’s in sleep, and late next morn¬ 
ing rose to hear that Fort Donelson was taken, and the 
Southern forces were falling back. A day or two later 
came word that Columbus, on the Mississippi, had been 
evacuated. It was idle for a woman to try just then to 
perform the task she had set for heiself. The Federal 
lines! 

“ Why, my dear child, they’re trying to find the Con¬ 
federate lines and strike them. You can’t lose anything 
— you may gain much — by remaining quiet here awhile. 
The Mississippi, I don’t doubt, will soon be ooen from 
end to end.” 


TRY AGAIN. 


393 


A fortnight seemed scarcely more than a day when it 
was past, and presently two of them had gone. One day 
comes Mr. Thornton, saying : — 

“ My dear child, I cannot tell you how I have the 
Rews, but you may depend upon its correctness. New 
Orleans is to be attacked by the most powerful naval ex¬ 
pedition that ever sailed under the United States flag. If 
the place is not in our hands by the first of April I will 
put you through both lines, if 1 have to go with you my¬ 
self.” When Mary made no answer, he added, “ Your 
delays have all been unavoidable, my child I ” 

Oh, I don’t know ; I don’t know I ” exclaimed Mary, 
with sudden distraction; “it seems to me I must be to 
blame, or I’d have been through long ago. I ought to 
have run through the lines. I ought to have ‘ run th« 
blockade.’ ” 

“ My child,” said the lawyer, “ you’re mad.” 

“ You’ll gee,” replied Mary, almost in solUoquj. 


394 


DR. SEVIER. 


CHAPTER UV, 


“ WHO GOES THERE?” 


r HE scene and incident now to be described are with' 



-A- out date. As Mary recalled them, years afterward, 
they hung out against the memory a bold, clear picture, 
cast upon it as the magic lantern casts its tableaux upon 
the darkened canvas. She had lost the day of the month, 
the day of the week, all sense of location, and the points 
of the compass. The most that she knew was that she 
was somewhere near the meeting of the boundaries of 
three States. Either she was just within the southern 
bound of Tennessee, or the extreme north-eastern corner 
of Mississippi, or else the north-western corner of Ala¬ 
bama. She was aware, too, that she had crossed the 
Tennessee river; that the sun had risen on her left and 
had set on her right, and that by and by this beautiful 
day would fade and pass from this unknown land, and 
the firelight and lamplight draw around them the home- 
groups under the roof-trees, here where she was a homeless 
stranger, the same as in the home-lands where she had 
cnce loved and been beloved. 

She was seated in a small, light buggy drawn by one 
good horse. Beside her the reins were held by a rathei 
tall man, of middle age, gray, dark, round-shouldered, 
and dressed in the loose blue flannel so much worn by 
followers of the Federal camp. Under the stiff brim of 
his soft-crowned black hat a pair of clear eyes gave a 
continuous playful twinkle. Between this person and 


WHO GOES THERE? 


395 


Mary protruded, at the edge of the buggy-seat, two 
small bootees that have already had mention, and from 
hia elbow to hers, and back to his, continually swayed 
drowsily the little golden head to which the bootees bore 
a certain close relation. The dust of the highway was 
on the buggy and the blue flannel and the bootees. It 
showed with special boldness on a black sun-bonnet that 
covered Mary’s head, and that somehow lost all its 
homeliness whenever it rose sufficiently in front to show 
the face within. But the highway itself was not there; 
it had been left behind some hours earlier. The buggy 
was moving at a quiet jog along a “neighborhood road,” 
with unploughed fields on the right and a darkling woods 
pasture on the left. By the feathery softness and pale¬ 
ness of the sweet-smelling foliage you might have guessed 
it was not far from the middle of April, one way or 
another; and, by certain allusions to Pittsburg Landing 
as a place of conspicuous note, you might have known 
that Shiloh had been fought. There was that feeling of 
desolation in the land that remains after armies have 
passed over, let them tread never so lightly. 

“ D’you know what them rails is put that way fur?” 
asked the man. He pointed down with his buggy-whip 
just off the roadside, first on one hand and then on the 
other. 

“ No,” said Mary, turning the sun-bonnet’s limp front 
toward the questioner and then to the disjointed fence 
on her nearer side; “that’s what I’ve been wondering 
for days. They’ve been ordinary worm fences, haven’t 
they ? ” 

“Jess so,” responded the man, with his accustomed 
iwinkle. “ But I think I see you oncet or twicet lookin’ 
At ’em and sort o’ tryin’ to make out how come they got 
nto that shape.” The long-reiterated W’s of the rail-fenc« 


696 


DR. SEVIER. 


had been pulled apart into separate V’s, and the two 
sides of each of these had been drawn narrowly to¬ 
gether, so that what had been two parallel lines of fence, 
with the lane between, was now a long double row of 
wedge-shaped piles of rails, all pointing into the woods 
jn the left. 

“How did it happen?” asked Mary, with a smile of 
curiosity. 

“ Didn’t happen at all, ’twas jess done by live men, 
and in a powerful few minutes at that. Sort o’ shows 
what we’re approachin’ unto, as it were, eh? Not but 
they’s plenty behind us done the same way, all the way 
back into Kentuck’, as you already done see; but this’s 
been done sence the last rain, and it rained night afore 
last.” 

“ Still I’m not sure what it means,” said Mary; “ has 
there been fighting here ? ” 

“ Go up head,” said the man, with a facetious gesture. 
“See? The fight came through these here woods, 
here. ’Taint been much over twenty-four hours, I 
reckon, since every one o’ them-ah sort o’ shut-up-fan- 
shape sort o’ fish-traps had a gray-jacket in it layin’ flat 
down an’ firin’ through the rails, sort o’ random-like, 
only not much so.” His manner of speech seemed a sort 
of harlequin patchwork from the bad English of many 
sections, the outcome of a humorous and eclectic fondness 
for verbal deformities. But his lightness received a 
sudden check. 

“ Heigh-h-h ! ” he gravely and softly exclaimed, gatlier- 
ing the reins closer, as the horse swerved and dashed 
Ahead. Two or three buzzards started up from the road¬ 
side, with their horrid flapping and whiff of quills, and 
circled low overhead. “ Heigh-h-h ! ” he continued sooth¬ 
ingly. “ H>o-o-o! somebody lost a good nag there, —s 


WHO GOES THERE? 


397 


Six-pound shot right through his head and netk. Who¬ 
ever made that shot killed two birds with one stone, 
sho!” He was half risen from his seat, looking back. 
As he turned again, and sat down, tlie drooping black 
sun-bonnet quite concealed the face within. He looked 
at it a moment. “ If you think you don’t like the risks 
we can still turn back.” 

“ No,” said the voice from out the sun-bonnet; “ go on.” 

“ If we don’t turn back now we can’t turn back at all.” 

“ Gk> on,” said Mary ; “I can’t turn back.” 

“ You’re a good* soldier,” said the man, playfully 
again. “ You’re a better one than me, I reckon; I kin 
turn back frequently, as it were. I’ve done it ‘ many a 
time and oft,’ as the felleh says.” 

Mary looked up with feminine surprise. He made a 
pretence of silent laughter, that showed a hundred crows’ 
feet in his twinkling eyes. 

“ Oh, don’t you fret; I’m not goin’ to run the wrong 
way with you in charge. Didn’t you hear me promise 
Mr. Thornton? Well, you see. I’ve got a sort o’ bad 
memory, that kind o’ won’t let me forgit when I make a 
promise; — bothers me that way a heap sometimes.” 
He smirked in a self-deprecating way, and pulled his 
hat-brim down in front. Presently he spoke again, 
looking straight ahead over the horse’s ears: — 

“ Now, that’s the mischief about cornin’ with me — got 
to run both blockades at oncet. Now, if you’d been a 
good Secesh and could somehow or ’nother of got a pass 
through the Union lines you’d of been all gay. But bein’ 
Union, the fu’ther you git along the wuss off you air, 
’less-n I kin take you and carry you ’way ’long yonder to 
where you kin jess jump onto a southbound Rebel rail 
road and light down amongst folks that’ll never think o’ 
you havin’ run through the lines.” 


398 


DB. 8BVIEB. 


“ But you can^t do that,” said Mary, not \n the form 
of a request. “ You know you agreed with Mr. Thornton 
that you would simply ” — 

“Put you down in a safe place,” said the man, 
jocosely; “ that’s what it meant, and don’t you get 
nervous ” — His face suddenly changed ; he raised his 
whip and held it up for attention and silence, looking at 
Mary, and smiling while he listened. “ Do you hear any¬ 
thing ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, in a hushed tone. There were 
some old fields on the right-hand now, and a wood on 
the left. Just within the wood a turtle-dove was cooing. 

“ I don’t mean that,” said the man, softly. 

“No,” said Mary, “you mean this, away over here.” 
She pointed across the fields, almost straight away in 
front. 

“ ’Taint so scandalous far ‘ awa-a-ay ’ as you talk like,” 
murmured the man, jestingly; and just then a fresh 
breath of the evening breeze brought plainer and nearer 
the soft boom of a bass-drum. 

“Are they coming this way?” asked Mary. 

“ No; they’re sort o’ dress-paradin’ in camp, I reckon,” 
He began to draw rein. “We turn off here, anyway,” 
he said, and drove slowly, but point blank into the 
forest. 

“ I don’t see any road,” said Mary. It was so dark in 
the wood that even her child, muffled in a shawl and 
asleep in her arms, was a dim shape. 

“ Yes,’ was the reply; “ we have to sort o’ smell ouj 
the way here; but my smellers is good, at times, and 
pretty soon we’ll strike a little sort o’ somepnuther like a 
road, about a quarter from here.” 

Pretty soon they did so. It started suddenly from the 
edge of an old field in the forest, and ran gradually down 


'^WHO GOES THERE?” 


399 


winding among the trees, into a densely wooded bottom, 
where even Mary’s short form often had to bend low to 
avoid the boughs of beech-trees and festoons of grape¬ 
vine. Under one beech the buggy stood still a moment. 
The man drew and opened a large clasp-knife and cut 
one of the long, tough withes. He handed it to Mary, as 
they started on again. 

With compliments,” he said, “ and hoping you won’t 
find no use for it.” 

“ What is it for? ” 

“ Why, you see, later on we’ll be in the saddle; and 
if such a thing should jess accidentally happen to happen, 
which I hope it won’t, to be sho*, that I should happen to 
sort o’ absent-mindedly yell out ‘ Go I ’ like as if a hornet 
had stabbed me, you jess come down with that switch, 
and make the critter under you run like a scared dog, as 
it were.” 

“Must I?” 

“ No, I don’t say you must^ but you’d better, I bet you 
You needn’t if you don’t want to.” 

Presently the dim path led them into a clear, rippling 
creek, and seemed to Mary to end; but when the buggy 
wheels had crunched softly along down stream over some 
fifty or sixty yards of gravelly shallow, the road showed 
itself faintly again on the other bank, and the horse, with 
a plunge or two and a scramble, jerked them safely over 
the top, and moved forward in the direction of the rising 
moon. They skirted a small field full of ghostly dead 
trees, where corn was beginning to make a show, turned 
its angle, and saw the path under their feet plain to view, 
smooth and hard. 

“See that?” said the man, in a tone of playful 
triumph, as the animal started off at a brisk trot, lifted 
his head and neighed. “ ‘ My day’s work’s done,’ sezee; 


400 


DB. SEVIEB. 


‘ I done hoed my row.’ ** A responsive neigh came out 
of the darkness ahead. ‘‘That’s the trick I ” said the 
man. “Thanks, as the felleh says.” He looked tc 
Mary for her appreciation of his humor. 

“I suppose that means a good deal; does it?” asked 
she, with a smile. 

“Jess so! It means, first of all, fresh bosses. And 
then it means a house what aint been burnt by jay hawkers 
yit, and a man and woman a-waitin’ in it, and some bacon 
and compone, and maybe a little coffee; and milk, any¬ 
how, till you can’t rest, and buttermilk to fare-you-well. 
Now, have you ever learned the trick o’ jess sort o’ qui’lin’ * 
up, cloze an’ all, dry so, and puttin’ half a night’s rest 
into an hour’s sleep ? ’Caze why, in one hour we must 
be in the saddle. No mo’ buggy, and powerful few 
roads. Comes as nigh coonin’ it as I reckon you ever 
’lowed you’d like to do, don’t it?” 

He smiled, pretending to hold back much laughter, 
and Mary smiled too. At mention of a woman she had 
removed her bonnet and was smoothing her hair with 
her hand. 

“ I don’t care,” she said, “ if only you’ll bring us 
through.” 

The man made a ludicrous gesture of self-abasement. 

“ Not knowin’, can’t say, as the felleh says ; but what 
I can tell you — I always start out to make a spoon or 
spoil a horn, and which one I’ll do I seldom ever promise 
^till it’s done. But I have a sneakin’ notion, as it were, 
that I’m the clean sand, and no discount, as IVIr. Lincoln 
says, and I do my best. Angels can do no more, as the 
felleh says.” 

He drew rein. “Whoa!” Mary saw a small log 


lOoilinf. 



WHO GOES THERE?” 


401 




cabin, and a fire-light shining under the bottom of the 
door. 

“ The woods seem to be on fire Just over there in three 
or four places, are they not?” she asked, as she passed 
the sleeping Alice down to the man, who had got out of 
the buggy. 

“ Them’s the camps,” said another man, who had come 
out of the house and was letting the horse out of the 
shafts. 

“ If we was on the rise o’ the hill yonder we could see 
the Confedick camps, couldn’t we, Isaiah ? ” asked Mary’s 
guide. 

“Easy,” said that prophet. “I heer ’em to-day two, 
three times, plain, cheerin’ at somethin’.” 

About the middle of that night Mary Richling was 
sitting very still and upright on a large dark horse that 
stood champing his Mexican bit in the black shadow of a 
great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleep against 
her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose 
naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of 
her the light of the full moon shone almost straight down 
upon a narrow road that just there emerged from the 
shadow of woods on either side, and divided into a main 
right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to 
Mary’s left. Off in the direction of the main fork the sky 
was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left 
there was a cool and grateful darkness. 

She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a 
tread, and the next moment a man came out of the bushes 
at the left, and without a word took the bridle of the led 
horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle. The 
hand that rested a moment on the cantle as he rose 
grasped a “navy-six.” He waa dressed in dull hom& 


402 


DR. SEVIER. 


sp’in but he was the same who had been dressed in bloA 
He timed his horse and led the way down the lesser road. 

“If we’d of gone three hundred yards further,” he 
whispered, falling back and smiling broadly, “ we’d ’a* 
run into the pickets. T went nigh enough to see the 
videttes settin’ on their bosses in the main road. This 
here aint no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters, 
f’ve got one o’ the niggers to show us the way.” 

“ Where is he? ” whispered Mary ; but, before her com¬ 
panion could answer, a tattered form moved from behind 
a bush a little in advance and started ahead in the path, 
walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a 
clear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging 
stride of the negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted 
on the bank of a deep, narrow stream. The negro made 
a motion for them to keep well to the right when they 
should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice 
to his arms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her 
saddle, with her skirts gathered carefully under her, and 
so they went down into the cold stream, the negro first, 
with arms outstretched above the flood; then Mary, and 
then the white man, — or, let us say plainly the spy, — 
with the unawakened child on his breast. And so they 
rose out of it on the farther side without a shoe or garment 
wet save the rags of their dark guide. 

Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and- 
rider fence, with the woods on one side and the bright 
moonlight flooding a field of young cotton on the other. 
Now thej heard the distant baying of house-dogs, now 
the doleful call of the chuck-will’s-widow ; and once Mary’s 
blood turned, for an instant, to ice, at the unearthly shriek 
of the hoot-owl just above her head. At length they 
found themselves in a dim, narrow road, and the negro 
stopped. 


’'who goes there?” 


403 


“ Dess keep dish yeh road fo’ ’bout half mile an* you 
Btrak ’pon the broad, main road. Tek de right, an’ you 
go whah yo’ fancy tek you.” 

“ Good-by,” whispered Mary. 

‘‘ Good-by, miss,” said the negro, in the same low 
voice ; “ good-by, bosws; don’t you fo’git you promise tek 
me thoo to de Yankee’ when you come back. I ’feered 
you gwine fo’git it, boss.” 

The spy said he would not, and they left him. The 
^If-mile was soon passed, though it turned out to be a 
mile and a half, and at length Mary’s companion looked 
back, as they rode single file, with Mary in the rear, and 
said softly, “ There’s the ’road,” pointing at its broad, 
pale line with his six-shooter. 

As they entered it and turned to the right, Mary, with 
Alice again in her arms, moved somewhat ahead of her 
companion, her indifferent horsemanship having compelled 
him to di-op back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was 
just quickening his pace to regain the lost position when 
a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of 
the highway, snatched a carbine from the earth and cried, 
“Halt!” 

The dark, recumbent forms of six or eight others could 
be seen, enveloped in their blankets, lying about a few 
red coals. Mary turned a frightened look backward and 
met the eyes of her companion. 

“ Move a little faster,” said he, in a low, clear voice. 
As she promptly did so she heard him answer the chal¬ 
lenge. His horse trotted softly after hers. 

“ Don’t stop us, my friend; we’re taking a sick child to 
the doctor.” 

“Halt, you hound!” the cry rang out; and as Mary 
glanced back three or four men were just leaping into the 
road. But she saw, also, her companion, his face suffused 


404 


DR. SEVIER. 


with an earnestness that was almost an agony, rise In hii 
stirrups, witli the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and 
wildly cry: — 

She smote the horse and flew. Alice awok<; an^ 
screamed. 

“ Hush, my darling!” said the mother, laying on tb 
withe ; “mamma’s here. Hush, darling ! — mamma’s here 
Don’t be frightened, darling baby! O God, spare ny 
child! ” and away she sped. 

The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away 
in a thousand echoes through the wood. Two others 
followed in sharp succession, and there went close by 
Mary’s ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the 
same moment she recognized, once, —twice, —thrice, — 
just at her back where the hoofs of her companion’s horse 
were clattering, — the tart rejoinders of his navy-six. 

“ Go! ” he cried again. “ Lay low! lay low! cover the 
child! ” But his words were needless. With head 
bowed forward and form crouched over the crying, cling¬ 
ing child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and 
sun-bonnet and loosened hair blown back upon hei 
shoulders, with lips compressed and silent prayers, Mary 
was riding for life and liberty and her husband’s bed¬ 
side. 

“ O mamma! mamma! ” wailed the terrified little one. 

“ Go on! Go on! ” cried the voice behind; “ they’re 
saddling — up I Go I go 1 We’re goin’ to make it. We’re 
goin’ to make it I Go-o-o! ” 

Half an hour later they were again riding abreast, at a 
moderate gallop. Alice’s cries had been quieted, but she 
still clung to her mother in a great tremor. Mary and 
her companion conversed earnestly in the subdued tone 
that had become their habit. 


WHO GOES THERE?” 


405 


No, I don’t think they followed U3 fur,” said the spy. 
“ Seem like they’s jess some scouts, most likely a-comin’ 
in to report, feelin’ pooty safe and sort o* takin’ it easy 
and careless; ‘ dreamin’ the happy hours away,’ as the 
felleh says. I reckon they sort o’ believed my story, too. 
the little gal yelled so sort o’ skilful. We kin slack up 
some more now ; we want to get our critters lookin’ cool 
and quiet ag’in as quick as we kin, befo’ we meet up with 
somebody.” They reined into a gentle trot. He drew 
his revolver, whose emptied chambers he had already re¬ 
filled. “ D’d you hear this little felleh sing, ‘ Listen to 
the mockin’-bird ’ ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mary; “ but I hope it didn’t hit any of 
them.” 

He made no reply. 

“ Don’t you?” she asked. 

He grinned. 

“D’you want a felleh to wish he was a bad shot?” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, smiling. 

“ WeU, seein’ as you’re along, I do. For they wouldn’t 
give us up so easy if I’d a hit one. Oh, — mine was only 
sort o’ complimentary shots, — much as to say, ‘ Same to 
you, gents,’ as the felleh says.” 

Mary gave him a pleasant glance by way of courtesy, 
but was busy calming the child. The man let his weapon 
into its holster under his homespun coat and lapsed into 
silence. He looked long and steadily at the small femi¬ 
nine figure of his companion. His eyes passed slowly 
from the knee thrown over the saddle’s horn to the gentle 
forehead slightly bowed, as her face sank to meet the up¬ 
lifted kisses of the trembling child, then over the crown 
and down the heavy, loosened tresses that hid the sun- 
bonnet hanging back from her throat by its strings and 
flowed on down to the saddle-bow. His admiring eyes. 


406 


DR. SEVIER. 


grave f^r once, had made the journey twice before h€ 
noticed that the child was trying to comfort the mother, 
and that the light of the sinking moon was glistening 
back from Mary’s falling tears. 

“ Better let me have the little one,” he said, “ and you 
sort o’ fix up a little, befo’ we happen to meet up with 
somebody, as I said. It’s lucky we haven’t done it 
already.” 

A littla coaxing prevailed with Alice, and the transfer 
was made. Mary turned away her wet eyes, smiling for 
shame of them, and began to coil her hair, her compan¬ 
ion’s eye following. 

“ Oh, you aint got no business to be ashamed of a few 
tears. I knowed you was a good soldier, befo’ ever we 
started ; I see’ it in yo’ eye. Not as I want to be com¬ 
plimentin’ of you jess now. ‘ I come not here to talk,’ as 
they used to say in school. D’d you ever hear that piece ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mary. 

“ That’s taken from Romans, aint it? ” 

“ No,” said Mary again, with a broad smile. 

“ I didn’t know,” said the man ; “I aint no brag Bible 
scholar.” He put on a look of droll modesty. “ I used 
to could say the ten commandments of the decalogue 
oncet, and I still tries to keep ’em, in ginerally. There’s 
another burnt house. That’s the third one we done 
passed inside a mile. Raiders was along here about two 
weeks back. Hear that rooster crowin’ ? When we pass 
the plantation whar he is and rise the next hill, we’ll be 
in sight o’ the little town whar we stop for refreshme'.v^^, 
as the railroad man says. You must begin to feel jess 
about ev'3rlastin’ly wore out, don’t you ? ” 

“ No,” said Mary; but he made a movement of the 
head to indicate that he had his belief to the contrary. 

At an abrupt angle Of the road Mary’s hea^* leaped 


WHO GOES THERE? 


407 


into her throat to find herself and her companion suddenly 
face to face with two horsemen in gray, journeying lei¬ 
surely toward them on particularly good horses. One 
wore a slouched hat, the other a Federal officer’s cap. 
They were the first Confederates she had ever seen eye 
to eye. 

“ Ride on a little piece and stop,” murmured the spy 
The strangers lifted their hats respectfully as she passed 
them. 

“ Gents,” said the spy, “ good-morning !” He threw a 
leg over the pommel of his saddle and the three men 
halted in a group. One of them copied the spy’s attitude. 
They returned the greeting in kind. 

“ What command do you belong to?” asked the lone 
stranger. 

“ Simmons’s battery,” said one. “ Whoa I ” — to his 
horse. 

“ Mississippi? ” asked Mary’s guardian. 

“ Rackensack,” said the man in the blue cap. 

“Arkansas,” said the other in the same breath. 

‘WTiat is your command?” 

“ Signal service,” replied the spy. “ Reckon I look 
mighty like a citizen jess about now, don’t I?” He gave 
them his little laugh of self-depreciation and looked 
toward Mary, where she had halted and was letting her 
horse nip the new grass of the roadside. 

“ See any troops along the way you come?” asked the 
man in the hat. 

“ No; on’y a squad o’ fellehs back yonder who was all 
unsaddled and fast asleep, and jumped up worse scared’n 
a drove o’ wile hogs. We both sort o’ got a little mad 
and jess swapped a few shots, you know, kind o’ tit for 
tat, as it were. Enemy’s loss unknown.” He stooped 
more than ever in the shoulders, and laughed. The men 


408 


DR. SEVIEB. 


were amused “ If you see ’em, Fd like you to mcntioi 
me”— He paused to exchange smiles again. “And 
tell ’em the next time they see a man hurryin’ along with a 
lady and sick child to see the doctor, they better hold their 
fire till they sho he’s on’y a citizen.” He let his fool 
down into the stirrup again and they aU smiled broadly. 
“ Good-morning ! ” The two parties went their ways. 

“ Jess as leave not of met up with them two butter¬ 
milk rangers,” said the spy, once more at Mary’s side; 
“but secin* as thah we was the oniest thing was to put 
on all the brass I had.” 

From the top of the next hill the travellers descended 
into a village lying fast asleep, with the morning star 
blazing over it, the cocks calling to each other from their 
roosts, and here and there a light twinkling from a 
kitchen window, or a lazy axe-stroke smiting the logs at 
a wood-pile. In the middle of the village one lone old 
man, half-dressed, was lazily opening the little wooden 
“store” that monopolized its commerce. The travellers 
responded to his silent bow, rode on through the place, 
passed over and down another hill, met an aged negro, 
who passed on the roadside, lifting his forlorn hat and 
bowing low; and, as soon as they could be sure they had 
gone beyond his sight and hearing, turned abruptly into a 
dark wood on the left. Twice again they turned to the 
left, going very warily through the deep shadows of the 
forest, and so returned half around the village, seeing no 
one. Then they stopped and dismounted at .a stable- 
door, on the outskirts of the place. The spy opened it 
with a key from his own pocket, went in and came out 
again with a great armful of hay, which he spread for the 
horses’ feet to muffle their tread, led them into the stable, 
removed the hay again, and closed and locked the door. 

“ Make yourself small,” he whispered, “ and walk 


**WHO GOES THEEE? 


4C9 


fast.” They passed by a garden path up to ths back 
porch and door of a small unpainted cottage. He 
knocked, three soft, measured taps. 

“ Day’s breakin’,” he whispered again, as he stood 
with Alice asleep in his arms, while somebody was heard 
Blirring within. 

“Sam?” said a low, wary voice just within the un¬ 
opened door. 

“ Sister,” softly responded the spy, and the door swung 
inward, and revealed a tall woman, with an austere but 
good face, that could Just be made out by the dim light 
of a tallow candle shining from the next room. The 
travellers entered and the door was shut. 

“ Well,” said the spy, standing and smiling foolishly, 
and bending playfully in the shoulders, “ well, IMrs. 
Richlin’,”—he gave his hand a limp wave abroad and 
smirked, — “ ‘ In Dixie’s land you take yo’ stand.’ This 
is it. You’re in it! — Mrs. Richlin’,. my sister; sister, 
Mrs. Richlin’.” 

“Pleased to know ye,” said the woman, without the 
faintest ray of emotion. “Take a seat and sit down.” 
She produced a chair bottomed with raw-hide. 

“ Thank you,” was all Mary could think of to reply as 
she accepted the seat, and “ Thank you ” again when the 
woman brought a glass of water. The spy laid Alice on 
a bed in sight of Mary in another chamber. He came 
back on tiptoe. 

“ Now, the next thing is to git you furder south. 
Wust of it is that, seein’ as you got sich a weakness fur 
tellin’ the truth, we’ll jess have to sort o’ slide you along 
fum one Union man to another; sort o’ hole fass what I 
give ye, as you used to say yourself, I reckon. But 
you’ve got one strong holt.” His eye went to his sister’s, 
and he started *away without a word, and was presently 


410 


DB. SEVIEB. 


heard making a fire, while the woman went about spread 
ing a small table with cold meats and corn-bread, milk 
and butter. Her brother came back once more. 

“ Yes,” he said to Mary, “ you've got one mighty good 
card, and that’s it in yonder on the bed. ‘HumphI’ 
folks’ll say; ‘ didn’t come fur with that there baby, 
sno I ’ ” 

“ I wouldn’t go far without her,” said Mary, brightly. 

“ I say,” responded the hostess, with her back turned, 
and said no more. 

“ Sister,” said the spy, “ we’ll want the buggy.” 

“ All right,” responded the sister. 

“ I’ll go feed the bosses,” said he, and went out. In 
a few minutes he returned. “ Joe must give ’em a good 
rubbin’ when he comes, sister,” he said. 

“ All right,” replied the woman, and then turning to 
Mary, “ Come.” 

“ What, ma’m? 

“ Eat.” She touched the back of a chair. “ Sam, 
bring the baby.” She stood and waited on the table. 

Mary was still eating, when suddenly she rose up, say¬ 
ing; 

“ Why, where is Mr.-, your brother?” 

“ He’s gone to take a sleep outside,” said his sister, 
“It’s too resky for him to sleep in a house.” 

She faintly smiled, for the first time, at the end of this 
long speech. 

“ But,” said Mary, “ oh, I haven’t uttered a word of 
thanks. What will he think of me? ” 

She sank into her chair again with an elbt w on the 
table, and looked up at the tall standing figure on the 
other side, with a little laugh of mortification. 

“You kin thank God,” replied the figure, aim 

gone.” Another ghost of a smile was seen for a moment 


”WHO GOBS THERB?” 


411 


on the grave face. “ Sam aint thinkin’ about that. Yon 
hurry and finish and lay down and sleep, and when you 
wake up he’ll be back here ready, to take you along 
furder. That’s a healthy little one. She wants some 
more buttermilk. Give it to her. If she don’t drink it 
the pigs’U git it, as the ole woman sajs. . . . Now you 
better lay down on the bed in yonder and go to sleep. 
Jess sort o’ loosen yo’ cloze; don’t take off noth’n’ but 
dress and shoes. You needn’t be afeard to sleep scimd; 
I’sB goiu’ to keep a lookout,” 


4 


f 

I 


DR. SEVIBB. 


as 


CHAPTEE LV. 


DXXIS. 

I N her sleep Mary dreamed over again the late rencon' 
tre. Again she heard the challenging outcry, and 
again was lashing her horse to his utmost speed; but 
this time her enemy seemed too fleet for her. He over¬ 
took — he laid his hand upon her. A scream was just at 
her lips, when she awoke with a wild start, to find the tall 
woman standing over her, and bidding her in a whispei 
rise with all stealth and dress with all speed. 

“ Where’s Alice ? ” asked Mary. “Where’s my little 
girl?” 

“ She’s there. Never mind her yit, till you’re dressed 
Here; not them cloze; these here homespun things. 
Make haste, but don’t get excited.” 

“How long have I slept?” asked Mary, hurriedly obey¬ 
ing. 

“ You couldn’t ’a’ more’n got to sleep. Sam oughtn’t 
to have shot back at ’em. They’re after ’im, hot; four of 
’em jess now passed through on the road, right here past 
my front gate.” 

“ What kept them back so long?” asked Mary, trem¬ 
blingly attempting to button her dress in the back. 

“ Let me do that,” said the woman. “ They couldn’t 
come very fast; had to kind o’ beat the bushes every 
hundred yards or so. If they’d of been more of ’em 
they’d a-come faster, ’cause they’d a-left one or two 
behind at each turn-out, and come along with the rest 


DIXIE. 


413 


There; now that there hat, there, on the table.** As 
Mary took the hat the speaker stepped to a window and 
peeped into the early day. A suppressed exclamation 
escaped her. “ O you poor boy! ” she murmured. Mary 
sprang toward her, but the stronger woman hurried her 
away from the spot. 

“Come; take up the little one ’thout wakin* her. 
Three more of ’ern’s a-passin*. The little young feller in 
the middle reelin* and swayin’ in his saddle, and t’others 
givin’ him water from his canteen.” 

“ Wounded?” asked Mary, with a terrified look, bring¬ 
ing the sleeping child. 

“ Yes, the last wound he’ll ever git, I reckon. Jess 
take the baby, so. Sam’s already took her cloze. He’s 
waitin’ out in the woods here behind the house. He’s got 
the critters down in the hollow. Now, here! This here 
bundle’s a ridin’-skirt. It’s not mournin’, but you mustn’t 
mind. It’s mighty green and cottony-lookin’, but — any¬ 
how, you jess put it on when you git into the woods. 
Now it’s good sun-up outside. The way you must do — 
you jess keep on the lef side o’ me, close, so as when I 
jess santer out e-easy todew the back gate you’ll be hid 
from all the other houses. Then when we git to the back 
gate I’ll kind o’ stand like I was lookin’ into the pig-pen, 
and you jess slide away on a line with me into the woods, 
and there’ll be Sam. No, no; take your hat off and sort 
o’ hide it. Now ; you ready? ” 

Mary threw her arms around the woman’s neck and 
kissed her passionately. 

“Oh, don’t stop for that I” said the woman, smiling 
with an awkward diffidence. “ Come 1” 

“ What is the day of the month?” esked Mary of the 


spy. 


414 


DS. SEYEEB. 


They had been riding briskly along a mere cattle-path 
in the woods for half an hour, and had just struck into ai 
old, unused road that promised to lead them presently into 
and through some fields of cotton. Alice, slumbering 
aeavily, had been, little by little, dressed, and was now 
in the man’s arms. As Mary spoke they slackened pace 
t") a quiet trot, and crossed a broad highway nearly at 
right angles. 

“ That would ’a’ been our road with the buggy,” said 
the man, “if we could of took things easy.” They were 
riding almost straight away from the sun. His dress had 
been changed again, and in a suit of new, dark brown 
homespun wool, over a pink calico shirt and white cuffs 
and collar, he presented the best possible picture of 
spruce gentility that the times would justify. “ ‘ What 
day of the month,’ did you ask? I’ll never tell you, but 
[ know it’s Friday.” 

“Then it’s the eighteenth,” said Mary. 

They met an old negro driving three yoke of oxen 
attached to a single empty cart. 

“Uncle,” said the spy, “Idon’t reckon the boss will 
mind our sort o’ ridin’ straight thoo his grove, will he ? ” 

“Not ’tall, boss; on’y dess be so kyine an’shet de 
gates behine you, sah.” 

They passed those gates and many another, shutting 
them faithfully, and journeying on through miles of fra¬ 
grant lane and fields of young cotton and corn, and 
stretches of wood where the squirrel scampered before 
them and reaches of fallow grounds still wet with dew, 
ind patches of sedge, and old fields grown up with 
thickets of young trees; now pushing their horses to % 
rapid gallop, where they were confident of escaping 
notice, and now ambling leisurely, where the eyes of 
afield, or of women at home, followed them with io 


DIXIB. 


415 


scrutiny ; or some straggling Confederate soldier cn fool 
or in the saddle met them in the way. 

“How far must we go oefore we can stop?” asked 
Mary. 

“Jess as far’s the critters’ll take us without showin’ 
distress.” 

“South IS out that way, isn’t it?” she asked again, 
pointing off to the left. 

“ Look here,” said the spy, with a look that was humor¬ 
ous, but not only humorous. 

“What?” 

“ Two or three times last night, and now ag’in, you 
gimme a sort o’ sneakin’ notion you don’t trust me,” 
said he. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed she, “I do I Only I’m so anxious 
to be going south.” 

“ Jess so,” said the man. “Well, we’re goin’ sort o’ 
due west right now. You see we dassent take this rail¬ 
road anvwheres about here,” — they were even then cross¬ 
ing the track of the Mobile and Ohio Railway — “ because 
that’s jess where they sho to be on the lookout fur us. 
And I can’t take you straight south on the dirt roads, 
because I don’t know the country down that way. But 
this way I know it like your hand knows the way to your 
mouth, as the felleh says. Learned it most all sence the 
war broke out, too. And so the whole thing is we got to 
jess keep straight across the country here till we stiike the 
Mississippi Central.” 

“ What time will that be? ” 

“Time I You don’t mean time o’ day, do you?” he 
asked. 

“Yes,” said Mary, smiling. 

“Why, we’ll be lucky to make it in two whole days. 
Won’t we, Alice ! ” The child had waked, and was staring 


416 


DR. SEVIER. 


Into her mother’s face. Mary caressed her. The spy 
looked at them silently. The mother looked np, as if to 
speak, but was silent. 

“HelloI” said the man, softly; for a tear shons 
through her smile. Whereat she laughed. 

“ I ought to be ashamed to be so unreasonable,” she 
said. 

“ Well, now, ri like to contradict you for once,” 
responds the spy; “ but the fact is, how kin I, when Noo 
Orleens is jest about south-west frum here, anyhow?” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, pleasantly, “ it’s between south and 
south-west.” 

The spy made a gesture of mock amazement. 

“ Well, you air partickly what you say. I never hear 
o’ but one party that was more partickly than you. I 
reckon you never hear’ tell o’ him, did you ? ” 

“ Who was he?” asked Mary. 

“ Well, I never got his name, nor his habitation, as the 
felleh says; but he was so conscientious that when a 
highwayman attackted him onct, he wouldn’t holla murder 
nor he wouldn’t holla thief, ’cause he wasn’t certain 
whether the highwayman wanted to kiU him or rob him. 
He was something like George Washington, who couldn’t 
tell a lie. Did you ever hear that story about George 
Washington?” 

“ About his chopping the cherry-tree with his hatchet? ” 
asked Mary. 

“ Oh, I see you done heard the story!” said the spy, 
and left it untold; but whether he was making game of 
his auditor or not she did not know, and never found out. 
Bat on they went, by many a home; through miles of 
growing crops, and now through miles of lofty pin» 
forests, and by log-cabins and unpainted cottages, from 
witliin whose open doors came often the loud feline groid 


DIXIB. 


417 


of the spinning-wheel. So on and on, Mary spending the 
first night in a lone forest cabin of pine poles, whoso 
master, a Confederate deserter, fed his ague-shaken wife 
and cotton-headed children oftener with the spoils of his 
rifle than with the products of the field. The spy and th§ 
leserter lay down together, and together rose again with 
"lie dawn, in a deep thicket, a few hundred yards away. 

The travellers had almost reached the end of this toil- 
jome horseback journey, when rains set in, and, for 
forty-eight hours more, swollen floods and broken bridges 
held them back, though within hearing of the locomotive’s 
whistle. 

But at length, one morning, Mary stepped aboard the 
Crain that had not long before started south from the 
town of Holly Springs, Mississippi, assisted with decorous 
alacrity by the conductor, and followed by the station- 
agent with Alice in his arms, and by the telegraph-oper¬ 
ator with a home-made satchel or two of luggage and 
luncheon. It was disgusting, — to two thin, tough-necked 
women, who climbed aboard, unassisted, at the other end of 
the same coach. 

“You kin just bet she’s a widder, and them fellers 
knows it,” said one to the other, taking a seat and spitting 
expertly through the window. 

“ If she aint,” responded the other, putting a peeled 
snuff-stick into her cheek, “ then her husband’s got the 
brass buttons, and they knows that. Look at ’er a-smi-i- 
ilin’! ” 

“What you reckon makes her look so wore out?’' 
asked the first. And the other replied promptly, with 
unbounded loathing, “ Dayncin’,” and sent her emphasis 
out of the window in liquid form without disturbing her 
intervening companion. 

During the delay caused by the rain Mary had found 


418 


DK. gEVIEB. 


time to refit her borrowed costume. Her dress was a 
stout, close-fitting homespun of mixed cotton and wool, 
woven in a neat plaid of walnut-brown, oak-red, and the 
pale olive dye of the hickory. Her hat was a simple 
round thing of woven pine straw, with a slightly drooping 
brim, its native brown gloss undisturbed, and the low 
crown wrapped about with a wreath of wild grasses 
plaited together with a bit of yellow cord. Alice wore a 
much-washed pink calico frock and a hood of the same 
stuff. 

“ Some officer’s wife,” said two very sweet and lady-like 
persons, of unequal age and equal good taste in dress, as 
their eyes took an inventory of her apparel. They wore 
bonnets that were quite handsome, and had real false 
flowers and silk ribbons on them. 

“ Yes, she’s been to camp somewhere to see him.” 

“ Beautiful child she’s got,” said one, as Alice began 
softly to smite her mother’s shoulder for private attention, 
and to whisper gravely as Mary bent down. 

Two or three soldiers took their feet off the seats, and 
one of them, at the amiably murmured request of tlie con¬ 
ductor, put his shoes on. 

“ The car in front is your car,” said the conductor to 
another man, in especially dirty gray uniform. 

“ You kin hev it,” said the soldier, throwing his palm 
open with an air of happy extravagance, and a group of 
gray-headed “ citizens,” just behind, exploded a loud 
countr3^ laugh. 

“ D’ I onderstaynd you to lafe at me, saw ? ” drawled the 
soldier, turning back with a pretence of heavy gloom on 
his uncombed brow. 

“ Laughin’ at yo’ friend yondeh,” said one of the 
citizens, grinning and waving his hand after the departing 
oondaotor. 


DIXIBS. 


419 


“'Caze if you lafe at me again, saw,” -the frown 
deepened, — “I’ll thess go ’ight straight out iss caw.” ’ 

The laugh that followed this dreadful threat was loud 
and general, the victims laughing loudest of all, and the 
soldier smiling about benignly, and slowly scratching hia 
elbows. Even the two ladies smiled, dice’s face re¬ 
mained impassive. She looked twice into her mother’s to 
see if there was no smile there. But the mother smiled 
at her, took off her hood and smoothed back the fine gold, 
then put the hood on again, and tied its strings under the 
upstretched chin. 

Presently Alice pulled softly at the hollow of her 
mother’s elbow. 

“Mamma — mammal” she whispered. Mary bowed 
her ear. The child gazed solemnly across the car at an¬ 
other stranger, then pulled the mother’s arm again, 
“ That man over there — winked at me.” 

And thereupon another man, sitting sidewise on the 
seat in front, and looking back at Alice, tittered softly, 
and said to Mary, with a raw drawl: — 

“ She’s a-beginnin’ young.” 

“ She means some one on the other side,” said Mary 
quite pleasantly, and the man had sense enough to hush. 

The jest and the laugh ran to and fro everywhere. It 
seemed very strange to Mary to find it so. There were 
two or three convalescent wounded men in the car, going 
home on leave, and they appeared never to weary of the 
threadbare joke of calling their wounds “ furloughs.” 
There was one little slip of a fellow — he could hardlj 
have been seventeen — wounded in the hand, whom they 
kept teazed to the point of exasperation by urging him to 
confess that he had shot himself for a furlough, and of 


^OutOft^OAT. 



420 


DR. 8BVIBR. 


^hom they said, later, when he had got off at a flag 
station, that he was the bravest soldier in his company. 
No one on the train seemed to feel that he had got all 
that was coming to him until the conductor had exchanged 
9 jest with him. The land laughed. On the right hand 
and on the left it dimpled and wrinkled in gentle depres¬ 
sions and ridges, and rolled away in fields of young com 
and cotton. The train skipped and clattered along at a 
happy-go-lucky, twelve-miles-anrhour gait, over trestles 
and stock-pits, through flowery/cuts and along slender, 
rain-washed embankments w’here dewberries were ripening, 
and whence cattle ran down and galloped off across the 
meadows on this side and that, tails up and heads down, 
throwing their horns about, making light of the scream¬ 
ing destruction, in their dumb way, as the people made 
light of the war. At stations where the train stopped — 
and it stopped on the faintest excuse — a long line of 
heads and gray shoulders was thrust out of the windows 
of the soldiers’ car, in front, with all manner of masculine 
head-coverings, even bloody handkerchiefs; and woe to 
the negro or negress or “ citizen ” who, by any conspicu¬ 
ous demerit or excellence of dress, form, stature, speech, 
or bearing, drew the fire of that line I No human power 
of face or tongue could stand the incessant volley of stale 
quips and mouldy jokes, affirmative, interrogative, and 
exclamatory, that fell about their victim. 

At one spot, in a lovely natural grove, where the air 
was spiced with the gentle pungency of the young hickory 
foliage, the train paused a moment to let off a man in fine 
gray cloth, whose yellow stripes and one golden star on 
the coat-collar indicated a major of cavalry. It seemed 
as though pandemonium had opened. Mules braying, 
negroes yodling, axes ringing, teamsters singing, men 
shouting and howling, and all at nothing; mess-fire« 


DEfUB. 


421 


smoking all about in the same hap-hazard, but roomy, dis- 
order in which the trees of the grove had grown; thf 
railroad side lined with a motley crowd of jolly fellows 
in spurs, and the atmosphere between them and the line 
of heads in the car-windows murky with the interchange 
of compliments that flew back and forth from the “ web- 
footsto the “ critter company,” and from the “ critter 
company” to the “ web-foots.” As the train moved off, 
“I say, boys,” drawled a lank, coatless giant on the 
roadside, with but one suspender and one spur, “ tha-afs 
right! Gen’l Beerygyard told you to strike fo’ yo* homes, 
an’ I see you’ a-doin’ it ez fass as you kin git thah.” 
And the “ citizens” in the rear car-windows giggled even 
at that; while the “ web-foots” he-hawed their derision, 
and the train went on, as one might say, with its hands 
in its pockets, whooping and whistling over the fields — 
after the cows; for the day was declining. 

Mary was awed. As she had been forewarned to do, 
she tried not to seem unaccustomed to, or out of harmony 
with, all this exuberance. But there was something so 
brave in it, coming from a people who were playing a los¬ 
ing game with their lives and fortunes for their stakes; 
something so gallant in it, laughing and gibing in the 
sight of blood, and smell of fire, and shortness of food and 
raiment, that she feared she had betrayed a stranger’s 
wonder and admiration every time the train stopped, and 
the idlers of the station platform lingered about her win¬ 
dow and silently paid their ungraceful but complimentary 
tribute of simulated casual glances. 

For, with all this jest, it was very plain there was bu^ 
little joy. It was not gladness ; it was bravery. It was 
the humor of an invincible spirit — the gayety of defi 


* lafastnr. 



422 


DR. 8EVIEK. 


ance. She could easily see the grim earnestness beneath 
the jocund temper, and beneath the unrepining smile the 
privation and the apprehension. What joy there was, was 
a martial joy. The people were confident of victory at 
last, — a victorious end, whatever might lie between * 
and of even what lay between they would confess no 
fear. Richmond was safe, Memphis safer. New Orleans 
safest. Yea, notwithstanding Porter and Farragut were 
pelting away at Forts Jackson and St. Philip. Indeed, 
if the rumor be true, if Farragut’s ships had passed those 
forts, leaving Porter behind, then the Yankee sea-serpent 
was cut in two, and there was an end of him in that direc¬ 
tion. Ha! ha! 

“ Is to-day the twenty-sixth?” asked Mary, at last, of 
one of the ladies in real ribbons, leaning over toward 
her. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

It was the younger one who replied. As she did so she 
came over and sat by Mary. 

“I judge, from what I heard your little girl asking you, 
that you are going beyond Jackson.” 

“ Pm going to New Orleans.” 

“Do you live there?” The lady’s interest seemed 
genuine and kind. 

“ Yes. I am going to join my husband there.” 

Mary saw by the reflection in the lady’s face that a 
sudden gladness must have overspread her own. 

“ He’ll be mighty glad. I’m sure,” said the pleasant 
stranger, patting Alice’s cheek, and looking, with a pretty 
fellow-feeling, first into the child’s face and then into 
Mary’s. 

“ Yes, he will,” said Mary, looking down upon tht 
curling locks at her elbow with a mother’s happiness 

“ Is he in the army? ” asked the lady. 


i>ixnB. 


423 


Mary's face fell. 

“ His health is bad," she replied. 

“ I know some nice people down in New Orleans," said 
the lady again. 

“ We haven’t many acquaintances,” rejoined Mary, 
ffilh a timidity that was almost trepidation. Her eyes 
dropped, and she began softly to smooth Alice’s collar and 
hair. 

“ I didn’t know,” said the lady, “but you might know 
some of them. For instance, there’s Dv. Sevier.” 

Mary gave a start and smiled. 

“ Why, is he your friend too?” she asked. She looked 
up into the lady’s quiet, brown eyes and down again into 
her own lap, where her hands had suddenly knit together, 
and then again into the lady’s face. “ We have no friend 
like Dr. Sevier.’’ 

“ Mother,” called the lady softly, and beckoned. The 
senior lady leaned toward her. “ Mother, this lady is 
from New Orleans and is an intimate friend of Dr. Sevier.* 

The mother was pleased. 

“What might one call your name?” she asked, taking 
a seat behind Mary and continuing to show her pleasure. 

“ Richling.” 

The mother and daughter looked at each other. They 
had never heard the name before. 

Yet only a little while later the mother was saying to 
Mary, — they were expecting at any moment to hear the 
whistle for the terminus of the route, the central Missis¬ 
sippi town of Canton : — 

“My dear child, no I T couldn’t sleep to-night if 1 
thought you was all alone in one o’ them old hotels in 
Canton. No, you must come home with us. We’re 
barely two mile’ from town, and we’ll have the carriage 
ready for you bright and early in the morning, and ou” 


424 


DE. SEVIEU 


coachman will put you on the cars just as nice — 
Trouble?” She laughed at the idea. “No; I tell you 
what would trouble me,— that is, if we’d allow it; that’d 
be for you to stop in one o’ them hotels all alone, child, 
and like’ as not some careless servant not wake you in 
time for the cars to-morrow.” At this word she saw 
capitulation in Mary’s eyes. “ Come, now, my child, 
we’re not going to take no for an answer.” 

Nor did they. 

But what was the result? The next morning, when 
Mary and Alice stood ready for the carriage, and it was 
high time they were gone, the carriage was not ready; 
the horses had got astray in the night. And while the 
black coachman was on one horse, which be had found 
and caught, and was scouring the neighboring fields and 
lanes and meadows in search of the other, there came out 
from townward upon the still, country air the long whistle 
of the departing train ; and then the distant rattle and roar 
of its far southern journey began, and then its warning 
notes to the scattering colts and cattle. 

“ Look away I ” — it seemed to sing — “ Look away I ” 

— the notes fading, failing, on the ear,— “ away — away 

— away down south in Dixie,” — the last train that left 
for New Orleans until the war was over. 


FIRE AND SWORD* 


m 


CHAPTER LVL 

nSE AND SWORD. 

rr^HE year the war began dates also, for New Orleans, 
the advent of two better things: street-cars and the 
fire-alarm telegraph. The frantic incoherence of the old 
alarum gave way to the few solemn, numbered strokes that 
called to duty in the face of hot danger, like the electric 
voice of a calm commander. The same new system also 
silenced, once for all, the old nine-o’clock gun. For there 
were not only taps to signify each new fire-district, — one 
for the first, two for the second, three, four, five, six 
seven, eight, and nine,— but there was also one lone toll 
at mid-clay for the hungry mechanic, and nine at the 
evening hour when the tired workman called his children 
in from the street and turned to his couch, and the slave 
must show cause in a master’s handwriting why he or she 
was not under that master’s roof. 

And then there was one signal more. Fire is a dread¬ 
ful thing, and aU the alarm signals were for fire except 
this one. Yet the profoundcst wish of every good man 
and tender women in New Orleans, when this pleasing 
novelty of electro-magnetic warnings was first published 
for the common edification, was that mid-day or mid¬ 
night, midsummer or midwinter, let come what might of 
danger or loss or distress, that one particular signal might 
not sound. Twelve taps. Anything but that. 

Dr. Sevier and Richling had that wish together. They 
had many wishes that were greatly at variance the one’s 


426 


DB. BBYIBB. 


from the other’s. The Doctor had struggled for the 
Union until the very smoke of war began to rise into the 
sky; but then he “ went with the South.” He was the 
only one in New Orleans who knew — whatever some 
others may have suspected — that RicLling’s heart was 
on the other side. Had Richling’s bodily strength re¬ 
mained, so that he could have been a possible factor, 
however small, in the strife, it is hard to say whether 
they could have been together day by day and night by 
night, as they came to be when the Doctor took the fail¬ 
ing man into his own home, and have lived in amity, as 
they did. But there is this to be counted; they were 
both, though from different directions, for peace, and 
their gentle forbearance toward each other taught them 
a moderation of sentiment concerning the whole great 
issue. And, as T say, they both together held the one 
.onging hope that, whatever war should bring of final 
gladness or lamentation, the steeples of New Orleans 
might never toll — twelve. 

But one bright Thursday April morning, as Richling 
was sitting, half dressed, by an open window of his room 
in Dr. Sevier’s house, leaning on the arm of his soft chaii 
and looking out at the passers on the street, among whom 
he had begun to notice some singular evidences of excite¬ 
ment, there came from a slender Gothic church-spire that 
was highest of all in the city, just beyond a few roofs in 
front of him, the clear, sudden, brazen peal of its one 
great bell. 

“Fire,” thought Richling; and yet, he xnew not why, 
wondered where Dr. Sevier might be. He had not seen 
him that morning. A high official had sent for him at 
sunrise and he had not returned. 

“Clang,” went the bell again, and the softer ding — 
dang — dong of others, struck at the same instant, cam« 


rnUE ANi) SWORD. 


427 


floating in from various distances. And then it clanged 
again — and again — and again — the loud one near, the 
soft ones, one by one, after it — six, seven, eight, nine — 
ah I stop there I stop there I But still the alarm pealed 
on; ten — alas I alas I — eleven — oh, oh, the women and 
children! — twelve I And then the fainter, final assevera¬ 
tions of the more distant bells — twelve ! twelve ! twelve I 
— and a hundred and seventy thousand souls knew by 
that sign that the foe had passed the forts. New Orleans 
had fallen. 

Richling dressed himself hurriedly and went out. 
Everywhere drums were beating to arms. Couriers and 
aides-de-camp were galloping here and there. Men in 
uniform were hurrying on foot to this and that rendez¬ 
vous. Crowds of the idle and poor were streaming out 
toward the levee. Carriages and cabs rattled frantically 
from place to place; men ran out-of-doors and leaped 
into them and leaped out of them and sprang up stair¬ 
ways ; hundreds of all manner of vehicles, fit and unfit to 
carry passengers and goods, crowded toward the railroad 
depots and steam-boat landings; women ran into the 
streets wringing their hands and holding their brows; 
and children stood in the door-ways and gate-ways and 
trembled and called and cried. 

Richling took the new Dauphine street-car. Far down 
in the Third district, where there was a silence like that 
of a village lane, he approached a little cottage painted 
with Venetian red, setting in its garden of oranges, pome¬ 
granates, and bananas, and marigolds, and coxcombs 
behind its white paling fence and green gate. 

The gate was open. In it stood a tall, strong woman, 
good-looking, rosy, and neatly dressed. That she was 
tail you could prove by the gate, and that she was strong, 
by the graceful muscularity with which she held two 


428 


DR, SEVIER. 


infants, — pretty, swarthy little fellows, with Joyous black 
eyes, and evidently of one age and parentage, — each in 
the hollow of a fine, round arm. There was just a hint 
of emotional disorder in her shining hair and a trace of 
tears about her eyes. As the visitor drew near, a fresh 
show of distressed exaltation was visible in the slight 
play of her form. 

“Ah I Mr. Richlin’,’' she cried, the moment he came 
within hearing, “ ‘ the dispot^s heels is on our shores ! * ” 
Tears filled her eyes again. Mike, the bruiser, in his 
sixth year, who had been leaning backward against her 
knees and covering his legs with her skirts, ran forward 
and clasped the visitor’s lower limbs with the nerve and 
intention of a wrestler. Kate followed with the cherubs. 
They were Raphael’s. 

“Yes, it’s terrible,” said Richling. 

“ Ah I no, Mr. Richlin’,” replied Kate, lifting her head 
proudly as she returned with him toward the gate, “it’s 
outrageouz; but it’s not terrible. At least it’s not for 
me, Mr. Richlin’. I’m only Mrs. Captain Ristofalah; 
and whin I see the collonels’ and gin’r’ls’ ladies a-prancin’ 
around in their carridges I feel my humility; but it’s my 
djuty to be 6rave, sur I An’ I’ll help to Jight thim, sur, if 
the min can’t do ud. Mr. Richlin’, my husband is the 
intimit frind of Gin’r’l Garrybaldy, sur. I I’ll help to 
burrin the cittee, sur I — rather nor give ud up to thim 
vandjals! Come in, Mr. Richlin’; come in.” She led the 
way up the narrow shell-walk. “ Come *ai, sur, it ma^ 
be the last time ye’ do ud before the flames is leppin 
from the roof I Ah 11 knowed ye’d come. I was a-lookin’ 
for ye. I knowed ye*d prcve yerself tnat frind in need 
that he’s the frind indeed! Take a seat an* sit down.” 
She faced about on the vine-covered porch, and dropped 
into a rocking-chair, her eyes still at the point of over 


rnUB AND 8WOBD. 


429 


flow “But ah! Mr. Richlin*, where’s all thim flatterers 
that fawned around uz in the days of tytled prosperity?” 

Richling said nothing; he had not seen any throngs of 
that sort. 

“ Gone, sur I and it’s a relief; it’s a relief, Mr. Rich- 
lin’! ” She marshalled the twins on her lap. Carlo com* 
aanding the right, Francisco the left. 

“ You mustn’t expect too much of them,” said Rich- 
ling, drawing Mike between his knees, “ in such a time 
of alarm and confusion as this.” And Kate responded 
generously: — 

“Well, I suppose you’re right, sur.” 

“ I’ve come down,” resumed the visitor, letting Mike 
count off “ Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,” on 
the buttons of his coat, ‘ ‘ to give you any help I can in 
getting ready to leave town. For you mustn’t think of 
staying. It isn’t possible to be anything short of dread¬ 
ful to stay in a city occupied by hostile troops. It’s 
almost certain the Confederates will try to hold the city, 
and there may be a bombardment. The city may be 
taken and retaken lialf-a-dozen times before the war is 
over.” 

“Mr. Richlin’,” said Kate, with a majestic lifting of 
the hand, “I’ll niver rin away from the Yanks.” 

“No, but you must go away from them. You mustn’t 
put yourself in such a position that you can’t go to your 
husband if he needs you, Mrs. Ristofalo; don’t get sepa* f 
rated from him.” 

“ Ah! Mr. Richlin’, it’s you as has the right to saj 
so ; and I’ll do as you say. lilr. Richlin’, my husband ” 
— her voice trembled — “may be wounded this hour. 
Ill go, sur, indeed I will; but, sur, if Captain Raphael 
Ristofalah wor 7iere, sur, he’d be ad the fronts sur, and 
Kate Ristofalah would be at his galliant side I ” 


430 


DB. SBVrjSR. 


“ Well, then, Fm glad he’s not here,” rejoined EicJh 
Hng, “ for Fd have to take care of the children.” 

“ Ha I ha! ha I ” laughed Kate. “ No, sur I Fd take 
the lion’s whelps with me, sur! Why, that little Mike 
theyre can han’le the dthrum-sticks to beat the felley in 
ik.e big hat! ” And she laughed again. 

They made arrangements for her and the three children 
to go “out into the confederacy” within two or three 
days at furthest; as soon as she and her feeble helper 
could hurry a few matters of business to completion at and 
about the Picayune Tier. Richling did not get back to 
the Doctor’s house until night had fallen and the sky was 
set aglare by seven miles’ length of tortuous harbor front 
covered with millions’ worth of burning merchandise. 
The city was being evacuated. 

Dr. Sevier and he had but few words. Richling was 
dejected from weariness, and his friend weary with de¬ 
jections. 

“Where have you been all day?” asked the Doctor, 
with a touch of irritation. 

“ Getting Kate Ristofalo ready to leave the city.” 

“ You shouldn’t have left the house ; but it’s no use to 
tell you anything. Has she gone?” 

“ No.” 

“Well, in the name of common-sense, then, when is 
she going ? ” 

“In two or three days,” replied Richling, almost in 
retort. 

The Doctor laughed with impatience. 

“If you feel responsible for her going get her off b^ 
to-morrow afternoon at the furthest.” He dropped his 
tired head against the back of his chair. 

“ Why,” said Richling, “ I don’t suppose tlie fleet cas 


FIRE AND SWORD. 


431 


fight its way through all opposition and get here short of 
a week/’ 

The Doctor laid his long fingers upon his brow and 
rolled his head from side to side. Then, slowly raising 
it: — 

“Well, RichlingI” he said, “there must have been 
some mistake made when you was put upon the earth.” 

Richling’s thin cheek flushed. The Doctor’s face con¬ 
fessed the bitterest resentment. 

“ Why, the fleet is only eighteen miles from here now.” 
He ceased, and then added, with sudden kindness of tone, 
“ I want you to do something for me, will you?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, then, go to bed; I’m going. You’ll need every 
gi-ain of strength you’ve got for to-morrow. I’m afraid 
then it will not be enough. This is an awful business, 
Richling.” 

They went upstairs together. As they were parting at 
its top Richling said : — 

“ You told me a few days ago that if the city should 
fall, which we didn’t expect” — 

“ That I’d not leave,” said the Doctor. “ No; I shall 
stay. I haven’t the stamina to take the field, and I can’t 
be a runaway. Anyhow, I couldn’t take you along. 
You couldn’t bear the travel, and I wouldn’t go and leave 
you here, Richling — old fellow! ” 

He laid his hand gently on the sick man’s shoulder, 
who made no response, so afraid was he that another word 
would mar the perfection of the last. 

When Richling went out the next morning the whole 
city was in an ecstasy of rage and terror. Thousands 
had gathered what they could in their hands, and were 
flying by every avenue of escape. Thousands ran hither 
and thither, not knowing where or how to fly. He saw 


432 


DR. SEVIER. 


the wife and son of the silver-haired banker rattling and 
bouncing away toward one of the railway depots in a 
butcher’s cart. A messenger from Kate by good chance 
met him with word that she would be ready for the 
afternoon train of the Jackson Railroad, and asking anew 
his earliest attention to her interests about the lugger 
landing. 

He hastened to tlie levee. The huge, writhing river, 
risen up above the town, was full to the levee’s top, and, 
as though the enemy’s fleet* was that much more than it 
could bear, was silently running over by a hundred rills 
into the streets of the stricken city. 

As far as tlie eye could reach, black smoke, white smoke, 
brown smoke, and red flames rolled and spread, and licked 
ind leaped, from unnumbered piles of cotton bales, and 
wooden wharves, and ships cut adrift, and steam-boats 
that blazed like shavings, floating down the harbor as they 
blazed. He stood for a moment to see a little revenue 
cutter, — a pretty topsail schooner, — lying at the foot of 
Canal street, sink before his eyes into the turbid yellow 
depths of the river, scuttled. Then he hurried on. Huge 
mobs ran to and fro in the fire and smoke, howling, break¬ 
ing, and stealing. Women and children hurried back and 
forth like swarms of giant ants, with buckets and baskets, 
and dippers and bags, and bonnets, hats, petticoats, 
anything, — now empty, and now full of rice and sugar 
and meal and corn and syrup, — and robbed each other, 
^and cursed and fought, and slipped down in pools of 
molasses, and threw live pigs and coops of chickens into 
the river, and with one voiceless rush left the broad levee 
a smoking, crackling desert, when some shells exploded 
on a burning gunboat, and presently were back again like 
a flock of evil birds. 

It began to rain, but Richling sought no shelter. The 


FIRE AND SWORD. 


433 


men he was in search of were not to be found. But the 
victorious ships, with hare black arms stretched wide, 
boarding nettings up, and the dark muzzles of their guns 
bristling from their sides, came, silently as a nightmare, 
slowly around the bend at Slaughterhouse Point and 
moved up the middle of the harbor. At the French 
market he found himself, without forewarning, witness 
of a. sudden skirmish between some Gascon and Sicilian 
market-men, who had waved a welcome to the fleet, and 
some Texan soldiers who resented the treason. The 
report of a musket rang out, iJyiecond and third reechoed 
it, a pistol cracked, and another, and another ; there was 
a rush for cover; another shot, and another, resounded in 
the market-house, and presently in the street beyond. 
Then, in a moment, all was silence and emptiness, into 
which there ventured but a single stooping, peeping 
Sicilian, glancing this way and that, with his finger on 
trigger, eager to kill, gliding from cover to cover, and 
presently gone again from view, leaving no human life 
visible nearer than the swarming mob that Richling, by 
mounting a pile of ship’s ballast, could see still on the 
steam-boat landing, pillaging in the drenching rain, and 
the long fleet casting anchor before the town in line of 
battle. 

Late that afternoon Richling, still wet to the skin, 
amid pushing and yelling and the piping calls of dis¬ 
tracted women and children, and scuflling and cramming 
in, got Kate Ristofalo, trunks, baskets, and babes, safely 
oft on the cars. And when, one week from that day, the 
sound of drums, that had been hushed for a while, feU 
upon his ear again, — no longer the jaunty rataplan of 
Dixie’s drums, but the heavy, monotonous roar of tht 
conqueror’s aiythe head of his dark-blue columns, — Riob 
ling could net leave his bed. 


434 


DR. SETTER. 


Dr. Sevier sat by him and bore the sound in silence. 
As it died away and ceased, Richling said: — 

“ May I write to Mary? ” 

Then the Doctor had a hard task. 

“ I wrote for her yesterday,” he said. “ But, Richling, 
I don’t think she’ll get the letter.” 

“ Do you think she has already started?” asked the 
sick man, with glad eagerness. 

“ Richling, I did the best I knew how ” — 

“ Whatever you did was all right. Doctor.” 

“ I wrote to her months ago, by the hand of Ristofalo. 
He knows she got the letter. I’m afraid she’s somewhere 
in the Confederacy, trying to get through. T meant it for 
the best, my dear boy.” 

“ It’s all right. Doctor,” said the invalid; but the 
physician could see the cruel fact slowly grind him. 

“Doctor, may T ask one favor?” 

“ One or a hundred, Richling.” 

“ I want you to let Madame Zenobie come and nurse 
me.” 

“ Wby, Richling, can’t I nurse you well enough?” 

The Doctor was jealous. 

“Yes,” answered the sick man. “But I’ll need a 
good deal of attention. She wants to do it. She, was 
here yesterday, you know. She wanted to ask you, but 
was afraid.” 

His wish was granted 


IN SIGHT. 


435 


CHAPTER LVn. 

ALMOST IN SIOHT. 

TN St. Tammany Parish, on the northern border of 
J- Lake Ponchartrain, about thirty miles from New 
Orleans, in a straight line across the waters of the lake, 
stood in time of the war, and may stand yet, an old 
house, of the Creole colonial fashion, all of cypress from 
sills to shingles, standing on brick pillars ten feet from 
the ground, a wide sreranda in front, and a double flight 
of front steps running up to it sidewise and meeting in a 
balustraded landing at its edge. Scarcely anything short 
of a steamer’s roof or a light-house window could have 
offered a flner stand-point from which to sweep a glass 
round the southern semi-circle of water and sky than did 
this stair-landing; and here, a long ship’s-glass in her 
hands, and the accustomed look of care on her face, faintly 
frowning against the glare of noonday, stood Mary 
Richling. She still had on the pine-straw hat, and the 
skirt — stirring softly in a breeze that had to come around 
from the north side of the house before it reached her 
— was the brown and olive homespun. 

“ No use,” said an old, fat, and sun-tanned man from 
his willow chair on the veranda behind her. There was a 
slight palsied oscillation in his head. He leaned forward 
somewhat on a staff, and as he spoke his entire shapeless 
and nearly helpless form quaked with the effort. But 
Mary, for all his advice, raised the glass and swung it 
slowly from east to west. 


436 


DB. SEVIEE. 


The house was near the edge of a slightly rising ground, 
close to the margin of a bayou that glided around toward 
the left from the woods at its back, and ran, deep and 
silent, under the shadows of a few huge, wide-spreading, 
moss-hung live-oaks that stood along its hithei shore, 
laving their roots in its waters, and throwing their vast 
green images upon its glassy surface. As the dark stream 
•lipped away from these it flashed a little while in the 
bright.open space of a marsh, and, just entering the shade 
of a spectral cypress wood, turned as if to avoid it, swung 
more than half about, and shone sky-blue, silver, and 
green as it swept out into the unbroken sunshine of the 
prairie. 

It was over this flowery savanna, broadening out on 
either hand, and spreading far away until its bright green 
margin joined, with the perfection of a mosaic, the distant 
olue of the lake, that Mary, dallying a moment with hope, 
passed her long glass. She spoke with it still raised and 
her gaze bent through it: — 

“There’s a big alligator crossing the bayou down in 
the bend.” 

“Yes,” said the aged man, moving his flat, carpet- 
slippered feet a laborious inch; “ alligator. Alligator not 
goin’ take you ’cross lake. No use lookin’. ’Ow Peter 
goin’ come when win’ dead ahead? Can’t do it.” 

Yet Mary lifted the glass a little higher, beyond the 
green, beyond the crimpling wavelets of the nearer dis¬ 
tance that seemed drawn by the magical lens almost into 
her hand, out to the fine, straight line that cut the cool 
blue below from the boundless blue above. Round swung 
the glass, slowly, waveringly, in her unpractised hand, 
from the low cypress forests of Manchac on the west, to 
the skies that glittered over the unseen marshes of th< 
Rigolets on the farthest east. 


ALMOST IN SIGHT. 


437 


“You see sail yondeh?’^ came the slow inquiry from 
behind. 

“ No,” said Mary, letting the instrument down, and 
resting it on the balusirade. 

“ Humph I No I Dawn’t I tell you is no use look? ” 

“ He was to have got here three days ago,” said Mary, 
shutting the glass and gazing in anxious abstraction across 
the prairie. 

The Spanish Creole grunted. 

“When win’ change, he goin’ start. He dawn’t start 
till win’ change. Win’ keep ligue dat, he dawn’t start 
’t all.” He moved his orange-wood stafif an inch, to suit 
the previous movement of his feet, and Mary came and 
laid the glass on its brackets in the veranda, near the 
open door of a hall that ran through the dwelling to 
another veranda in the rear. 

In the middle of the hall a small woman, as dry as the 
peppers that hung in strings on the wall behind her, sat 
in a rush-bottomed rocking-chair plaiting a palmetto hat, 
and with her elbow swinging a tattered manilla hammock, 
in whose bulging middle lay Alice, taking her compulsory 
noonday nap. Mary came, expressed her thanks in 
sprightly whispers, lifted the child out, and carried her 
to a room. How had Mary got here ? 

The morning after that on which she had missed the 
cars at Canton she had taken a south-bound train for 
Camp Moore, the camp of the forces that had evacuated 
New Orleans, situated near the railway station of Tangi¬ 
pahoa, some eighty miles north of the captured city. 
Thence, after a day or two of unavoidable delay, and of 
careful effort to know the wisest step, she had taken stage, 
— a crazy ambulance, — with some others, two women, 
three children, and an old man, and for two days had trav¬ 
elled through a beautiful country of red and yellow clays 


438 


DR. SEVIIR. 


and sands below and murmuring pines above, — vast col 
onnades of towering, branchless brown columns holding 
high their green, translucent roof, and opening up their 
wide, bright, sunshot vistas of gentle, grassy hills that 
undulated far away under the balsamic forest, and melted 
at length into luminous green unity and deer-haunted 
solitudes. Now she went down into richer bottom-lands, 
where the cotton and corn were growing tall and pretty 
to look upon, like suddenly grown ’girls, and the sun 
was beginning to shine hot. Now she passed over rustic 
bridges, under posted warnings to drive slow or pay a fine, 
Or through sandy fords across purling streams, hearing 
the monotone of some unseen mill-dam, or scaring the 
tall gray crane from his fishing, or the otter from his 
pranks. Again she went up into leagues of clear pine 
forest, with stems as straight as lances; meeting now a 
fanner, and now a school-girl or two, and once a squad 
of scouts, ill-mounted, worse clad, and yet more sorrily 
armed ; bivouacking with the jolly, tattered fellows, Mary 
and one of the other women singing for them, and the 
“ boys ” singing for Mary, and each applauding each 
about the pine-knot fire, and the women and children by 
and by lying down to slumber, in soldier fashion, with 
their feet to the brands, under the pines and the stars, 
while the gray-coats stood guard in the wavering fire¬ 
light ; but Mary lying broad awake staring at the great 
constellation of the Scorpion, and thinking now ^f him 
she sought, and now remorsefully of that other scout, that 
poor boy whom the spy had shot far away yonder to the 
north and eastward. Now she rose and journeyed again. 
Rare hours were those for Alice. They came at length 
into a low, barren land, of dwarfed and scrawny pines, 
with here and there a marshy flat; thence through a 
narrow strip of hickories, oaks, cypresses, and dwarf 


ALMOST m SIOHT. 


439 


palmetto, and so on into beds of white sand and oyster- 
shells, and then into one of the villages on the north 
shore of Lake Pontchartrain. 

Her many little adventures by the way, the sayings 
and doings and seeings of Alice, and all those little 
adroitnesses by which Mary from time to time succeeded 
in avoiding or turning aside the suspicions that hovered 
about her, and the hundred times in which Alice was her 
strongest and most perfect protection, we cannot pause 
to tell. But we give a few lines to one matter. 

Mary had not yet descended from the ambulance at 
her journey’s end; she and Alice only were in it; its 
tired mules were dragging it slowly through the sandy 
street of the village, and the driver was praising the 

milk, eggs, chickens, and genteel seclusion of Mrs.-’s 

“ hotel,” at that end of the village toward which he was 
driving, when a man on horseback met them, and, in 
passing, raised his hat to Mary. The act was only the 
usual courtesy of the highway; yet Mary was startled, 
disconcerted, and had to ask the unobservant, loquacious 
driver to repeat what he had said. Two days afterward 
Mary was walking at the twilight hour, in a narrow, sandy 
road, that ran from the village out into the country to the 
eastward. Alice walked beside her, plying her with 
questions. At a turn of the path, without warning, she 
confronted this horseman again. He reined up and lifted 
his hat. An elated look brightened his face. 

“ It’s all fixed,” he said. But Mary looked distressed, 
even alarmed. 

“ You shouldn’t have done this,” she replied. 

The man waved his hand downward repressively, but 
with a countenance full of humor. 

‘‘ Hold on. It’s still my deal. This is the last time, 
and then I’m done. Make a spoon or spoil a horn, you 


440 


DR. SEVIER. 


know. When you commence to do a thing, do it 
Them’s the words that’s inscribed on my banner, as the 
felleh says; only I, Sam, aint got much banner. And 
if I sort o’ use about this low country a little while for 
my health, as it were, and nibble around sort o’ pro bono 
publico takin’ notes, why you aint a-carin’, is you? For 
wherefore shouldest thou?” He put on a yet more ludi¬ 
crous look, and spread his hand off at one side, working 
his outstretched fingers. 

“Yes,” responded Mary, with severe gravity; “I 
must care. You did finish at Holly Springs. I was to 
find the rest of the way as best I could. That was the 
understanding. Go away!” She made a commanding 
gesture, though she wore a pleading look. He looked 
grave ; but his habitual grimace stole through his gravity 
and invited her smile. But she remained fixed. He 
gathered the rein and straightened up in the saddle. 

“ Yes,” she insisted, answering his inquiring attitude ; 
“go I I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. It 
wasn’t because I mistrusted you that I refused your aid 

at Camp Moore or at- that other place on this side. 

I don’t mistrust you. But don’t you see — you must see 
— it’s your duty to see — that this staying and — and — 
foil — following — is — is — wrong.” She stood, holding 
her skirt in one hand, and Alice’s hand in the other, 
not upright, but in a slightly shrinking attitude, and as 
she added once more, “Go! I implore you — go I” her 
©yes filled. 

“ I will; I’ll go,” said the man, with a soft chuckle 
intended for self-abasement. “ I go, thou goest, he goes. 
‘ ril skedaddle,’ as the felleh says. And yit it do seem 
to me sorter like, — if my moral sense is worthy of any 
consideration, which is doubtful, may be, — seems to me 
lilie it’s sort o’ jumpin’ the bounty for you to go and go 


ALMOST IN SIGHT. 


441 


back on an arrangement that’s been all fixed up nice and 
tight, and when it’s on’y jess to sort o’ ‘ jump into the 
wagon ’ that’s to call for you to-morrow, sun-up, drove by 
a nigger boy, and ride a few mile’ to a house on the 
bayou, and wait there till a man comes with a nice little 
schooner, and take you on bode and sail off, and ‘ good- 
by, Sally,’ and me never in sight from fust to last, ‘ and 
no questions axed.’ ” 

“ I don’t reject the arrangement,” replied Mary, with 
tearful pleasantness. “ If you’ll do as I say. I’ll do as 
you say; and that will be final proof to you that I believe 
you’re ”— she fell back a step, laughingly — “ ‘ the clean 
sand I ’ ” She thought the man would have perpetrated 
some small antic ; but he did not. He did not even smile, 
but lifted the rein a little till the horse stepped forward, 
and, putting out his hand, said; — 

“ Good-by. You don’t need no directions. Jess tell 
the lady where you’ boardin’ that you’ve sort o’ consented 
to spend a day or two with old Adrien Sanchez, and get 
into the wagon when it comes for you.” He let go her 
hand. “ Good-by, Alice.” The child looked up in 
silence and pressed herself against her mother. “ Good- 
by,” said he once more. 

“ Good-by,” replied Mary. 

His eyes lingered as she dropped her own. 

“Come, Alice,” she said, resisting the little one’s 
effort to stoop and pick a wild-pea blossom, and the 
mother and child started slowly back the way they 
had come. The spy turned his horse, and moved 
itill moie slowly in the opposite direction. But before 
he had gone many rods he turned the animal’s head again, 
rode as slowly back, and, beside the spot where Mary had 
stood, got down, and from the small imprint of her shoe in 
the damp sand took the pea-blossom, which, in turning to 


442 


SBVXE2B* 


depart, she had unawares trodden under foot. He looked 
at the small, crushed thing for a moment, and then thrust 
it into his bosom; but in a moment, as if by a counter 
impulse, drew it forth again, let it flutter to the ground, 
following it with his eyes, shook his head with an amused 
air, half of defiance and half of discomfiture, turned, drew 
himself into the saddle, and with one hand laid upon 
another on the saddle-bow and his eyes resting on them 
in meditation, passed finally out of sight. 

Here, then, in this lone old Creole cottage, Mary was 
tarrying, prisoner of hope, coming out all hours of the 
day, and scanning the wide view, first, only her hand to 
shade her brow, and then with the old ship’s-glass, Alice 
often standing by and looking up at this extraordinary 
toy with unspoken wonder. All that Mary could tell her 
of things seeable through it could never persuade the 
child to risk her own eye at either end of it. So Mary 
would look again and see, out in the prairie, in the morn¬ 
ing, the reed birds, the marsh hen, the blackbirds, the 
sparrows, the starlings, with their red and yellow epaulets, 
rising and fluttering and sinking again among the lilies 
and mallows, and the white crane, paler than a ghost, 
wading in the grassy shallows. She saw the ravening 
garfish leap from the bayou, and the mullet in shining 
hundreds spatter away to left and right; and the fisher¬ 
man and the shrimp-catcher in their canoes come gliding 
up the glassy stream, riding down the water-lilies, that 
rose again behind and shook the drops from their crowns, 
like water-sprites. Here and there, farther out, she saw 
the little cat-boats of the neighboring village crawling along 
the edge of the lake, taking their timid morning cruisea 
And far away she saw the titanic clouds; but on the hori 
zon, DO sail. 


ALMOST IN SIGHT. 


44d 


In the evening she would see mocking-birds coming out 
of the savanna and flying into the live-oaks. A summer 
luck might dart from the cypresses, speed across the 
wide green level, and become a swerving, vanishing speck 
on the sky. The heron might come round the bayou's 
bend, and suddenly take fright and fly back again. The 
rattling kingfisher might come up the stream, and the 
blue crane sail silently through the purple haze that hung 
between the swamp and the bayou. She would see the 
gulls, gray and white, on the margin of the lake, the sun 
setting beyond its western end, and the sky and water 
turning all beautiful tints; and every now and then, low 
down along the cool, wrinkling waters, passed across the 
round eye of the glass the broad, downward-curved wing 
of the pelican. But when she ventured to lift the glass 
to the horizon, she swept it from east to west in vain. 
No sail. 

“ Dawn’t I tell you no use look? Peter dawn’t comin 
in day-time, nohow." 

But on the fifth morning Mary had hardly made hei 
appearance on the veranda, and had not ventured near 
the spy-glass yet, when the old man said: — 

“ She rain back in swamp las’ night; can smell.” 

“ How do you feel this morning? ’’ asked Mary, facing 
around from her first glance across the waters. He did 
not heed. 

“See dat win’?” he asked, lifting one hand a little 
from the top of his staff. 

“ Yes,” responded Mary, eagerly ; “ why, it’s— hasn’t 
it — changed?’’ 

“ Yes, change’ las’ night ’fo’ went to bed.” 

The old man’s manner betrayed his contempt for one 
who could be interested in such a change, and yet not 
know when it took place. 


444 


DR a SBVXERa 


“ Why, then,” began Mary, and started as if to taks 
down the glass. 

“ What you doin’ ? ” demanded its owner. “ Better lei 
glass ’lone ; fool’ wid him enough.” 

Mary flushed, and, with a smile of resentful apology, 
was about to reply, when he continued : — 

“ What you want glass for? Dare Peter’ schooner — 
right dare in bayou. What want glass for? Can’t see 
Bchooner hundred yard’ off ’dout glass ? ” And he turned 
away his poor wabbling head in disgust. 

Mary looked an instant at two bare, rakish, yellow 
poles showing out against the clump of cypresses, and the 
trim little white hull and apple-green deck from which 
they sprang, then clasped her hands and ran into ths 
konse. 


A aOLDSN SUNSICT. 


445 




CHAPTER LVni. 

A GOLDEN SUNSET. 

D r. SEVIER came to Richling’s room one afternoon, 
and handed him a sealed letter. The postmark 
was blurred, but it was easy still to read the abbreviation 
of the State’s name, — Kentucky. It had come by way 
of New York and the sea. The sick man reached out for 
it with avidity from the large bed in which he sat bol¬ 
stered up. He tore it open with unsteady fingers, and 
sought the signature. 

“ It’s from a lawyer.” 

“ An old acquaintance?” asked the doctor. 

“ Yes,'’ responded Richling, his eyes glancing eagerly 
along the lines. “Mary’s in the Confederate lines! — 
Mary and Alice ! ” The hand that held the letter dropped 
to his lap. “ It doesn’t say a word about how she got 
through I ” 

“ But where did she get through? ” asked the physician. 
“ Whereabouts is she now?” 

“ She got through away up to the eastward of Corinth, 
Mississippi. Doctor, she may be within fifty miles of us 
this very minute! Do you think they’ll give her a pass 
to come in?” 

“ They may, Richling ; I hope they will.” 

“ I think I’d get well if she’d come,” said the invalid 
But his friend made no answer. 

A day or two afterward — it was drawing to the close 
of a beautiful afternoon in early May — Dr. Sevier came 


44« 


DB. AETJLEK. 


into the room and stood at a window looking out. Mad* 
ame Z4nobie sat by the bedside softly fanning the patient. 
Richling, with his eyes, motioned her to retire. She 
smiled and nodded approvingly, as if to say that that wa* 
just what she was about to propose, and went out, shut* 
ting the door with just sound enough to announce her de* 
parture to Dr. Sevier. 

He came from the window to the bedside and sat down. 
The sick man looked at him, with a feeble eye, and aaid, 
in little more than a whisper: ~ 

“ Mary and Alice ” — 

“ Yes,” said the Doctor. 

“ If they don’t come to-night they’ll be too late.” 

“ God knows, my dear boy I ” 

“ Doctor ” — 

“What, Richling?” 

“Did you ever try to guess ” — 

“ Guess what, Richling? ” 

“ His use of my life.” 

“Why, yes, my poor boy, I have tried. But I only 
make out its use to me.” 

The sick man’s eye brightened. 

“ Has it been?” 

The Doctor nodded. He reached out and took the 
wasted hand in his. It tried to answer his pressure. 
The invalid spoke. 

“ I’m glad you told me that before —before it was too 
late.” 

“ Are you, my dear boy? Shall I tell you more?” 
“Yes,” the sick man huskily replied; “ oh, yes.” 

“ Well, Richling,—you know we’re great cowards about 
saying such things ; it’s a part of our poor human weak¬ 
ness and distrust of each other, and the emptiness of 
ords, — but — lately — only just here, very lately, I’ve 


A GOLDEN SUNSET. 


447 


learned to call the meekest, lovingest One that ever trod 
onr earth, Master; and it’s been your life, my dear fellow, 
that has taught me.” He pressed the sick man’s hand 
slowly and tremulously, then let it go, but continued to 
caress it in a tender, absent way, looking on the floor as 
he spoke on. 

“Richling, Nature herself appoints some men to pov¬ 
erty and some to riches. God throws the poor upon our 
charge — in mercy to us. Couldn’t he take care of them 
without us if he wished? Are they not his? It’s easy 
for the poor to feel, when they are helped by us, that the 
rich are a godsend to them; but they don’t see, and 
many of their helpers don’t see, that the poor are a god¬ 
send to the rich. They’re set over against each other te 
keep pity and mercy and charity in the human heart. 
If every one were entirely able to take care of himself 
we’d turn to stone.” The speaker ceased. 

“ Go on,” whispered the listener. 

“ That will never be,” continued the Doctor. “ God 
Almighty will never let us find a way to quite abolish 
poverty. Riches don’t always bless the man they come 
to, but they bless the world. And so with poverty ; and 
it’s no contemptible commission, Richling, to be ap¬ 
pointed by God to bear that blessing to mankind which 
keeps its brotherhood universal. See, now,” — he looked 
up with a gentle smile, — “from what a distance he 
brought our two hearts together. Why, Richling, the man 
that can make the rich and poor love each other will make 
the world happier than it has ever been since man fell I ’ 

“ Go on,” whispered Richling. 

“ No,” said the Doctor. 

“Well, now. Doctor—/want to say — something.” 
The invalid spoke with a weak and broken utterance, with 
many breaks and starts that we may set aside. 


448 


DK. SEVIER. 


“ For a long time,” he said, beginning as if half in 
soliloquy, “ I couldn't believe I was coming to this early 
end, simply because I didn’t see why I should. I know 
that was foolish. I thought my hardships ” — He ceased 
entirely, and, when his strength would allow, resumed: — 

“ I thought they were sent in order that when I should 
come to fortune I might take part in correcting some 
evils that are strangely overlooked.” 

The Doctor nodded,; and, after a moment of rest, 
Richling said again: — 

“ But now I see —that is not my work. May be it is 
Mary’s. May be it’s my little girl’s.” 

“ Or mine,” murmured the Doctor. 

“ Yes, Doctor, I’ve been lying here to-day thinking of 
something I never thought of before, though I dare say 
you have, often. There could be no art of healing till 
the earth was full of graves. It is by shipwreck that we 
learn to build ships. All our safety — all our betterment 

— is secured by our knowledge of others’ disasters that 
need not have happened had they only known. Will you 

— finish my mission?” The sick man’s hand softly 
grasped the hand that lay upon it. And the Doctor 
responded; — 

“ How shall I do that, Richling?” 

“ Tell my story.” 

“ But I don’t know it all, Richling.” 

“ I’ll tell you all that’s behind. You know I’m a 
native of Kentucky. My name is not Richling. I belong 
to one of the proudest, most distinguished families in 
that State or in all the land. Until I married I never 
knew an ungratified wish. I think my bringing-up, not 
to be wicked, was as bad as could be. ,It was based 
upon the idea that I was always to be master, and never 
gervant. I was to go through life with soft hands. I 


▲ GOLDEN SUNSET. 


449 


was educated to know, but not to do. When 1 left 
school my parents let me travel. They would have let 
me do anything except work. In the West — in Mil¬ 
waukee— I met Mary. It was by mere chance. She 
was poor, but cultivated and refined ; trained — you know 
— for knowing, not doing. I loved her and courted her> 
and she encouraged my suit, under the idea, you know, 
again,” — he smiled faintly and sadly, — “ that it was 
nobody’s business but ours. I oflfered my hand and was 
accepted. But, when I came to announce our engage* 
ment to my family, they warned me that if I married her 
they would disinherit and disown me.” 

What was their reason, Kichling?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ But, Richling, they had a reason of some sort.” 

“ Nothing in the world but that Mary was a Northern 
girl. Simple sectional prejudice. I didn’t tell Mary. 
I didn’t think they would do it; but I knew Mary would 
refuse to put me to the risk. We married, and they 
carried out their threat.” 

The Doctor uttered a low exclamation, and both were 
silent. 

“ Doctor,” began the sick man once more. 

“ Yes, Richling.” 

“ I suppose you never looked into the case of a man 
who needed help, but you were sure to find that some one 
thing was the key to all his troubles ; did you? ” 

The Doctor was silent again. 

“ I’ll give you the key to mine. Doctor: I took up the 
gage thrown down by my family as though it were 
thrown down by society at large. I said I would match 
pride with pride. I said I would go among strangers, 
take a new name, and make it as honorable as the old 
I saw Mary didn’t think it wise; but she believed what 


450 


DR. gEvnsa. 


eyer I did was best, and ” — he smiled and whispered 
— “ I thought so too. I suppose my troubles have more 
than one key ; but that’s the outside one. Let me rest a 
little. 

“ Doctor, I die nameless. I had a name, a good name, 
and only too proud a one. It’s mine still. I’ve never 
tarnished it — not even in prison. I will not stain it now 
by disclosing it. I carry it with me to God’s throne.” 

The whisperer ceased, exhausted. The Doctor rested an 
elbow on a knee and laid his face in his hand. Presently 
Richling moved, and he raised a look of sad inquiry. 

“ Bury me here in New Orleans, Doctor, will you?” 

“ Why, Richling?” 

“Well — this has been — my — battle-ground. I’d 
like to be buried on the field, — like the other soldiers. 
Not that I’ve been a good one ; but — I want to lie where 
you can point to me as you tell my story. If it could be 
so, I should like to lie in sight — of that old prison.” 

The Doctor brushed his eyes with his handkerchief and 
wiped his brow. 

“ Doctor,” said the invalid again, “ will you read me 
just four verses in the Bible ? ” 

“ WTiy, yes, my boy, as many as you wish to hear.” 

“ No, only four.” His free hand moved for the book 
that lay on the bed, and presently the Doctor read : — 

“ ‘ My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into diverg temp 
tations; 

“ ‘Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patiense 

“ ‘But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be per 
feet and entire, wanting nothing. 

“ ‘ If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth te 
all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. ’ ” 

“ There,” whispered the sick man, and rested with a 


A GOLDEN SUNSET. 


451 


peaceful look in all his face. “It — doesn’t mean wisdora 
In general, Doctor, — such as Solomon asked for.” 

“ Doesn’': it?” said the other, meekly. 

‘ ‘ No. It means the wisdom necessary to let — patience 
— have her perf— I was a long time — getting any¬ 
where near that. 

“Doctor — do you remember how fond — Mary was 
cf singing — all kinds of — littlo old songs ? ” 

“ Of course I do, my dear boy.” 

“ Did you ever sing — Doctor? ” 

“ O my dear fellow I I never did really sing, and I 
haven’t uttered a note since — for twenty years.” 

“ Can’t you sing — ever so softly —just a verse — of— 
‘I’m a Pilgrim’?” 

“ I — I — it’s impossible, Richling, old fellow. I don’t 
know either the words or the tune. I never sing.” He 
smiled at himself through his tears. 

“Well, all right,” whispered Richling. He lay with 
closed eyes for a moment, and then, as he opened them, 
breathed faintly through his parted lips the words, spoken, 
not sung, while his hand feebly beat the imagined ca¬ 
dence : — 

“ ‘The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home; 

’Tis summer, the darkies are gay; 

The corn-tops are ripe, and the meadows are in bloom, 
And the birds make music all the day.’ ” 

The Doctor hid his face, in his hands, and all was still. 

By and by there came a whisper again. The Docto* 
raised his head. 

“ Doctor, there’s one thing ”— 

“ Yes, I know there is, Richling.” 

“ Doctor, —I’ve been a poor stick of a husband.'* 

“ I never knew a good one, Richling.” 


452 


DK. SEVIER. 


“Doctor, you’ll be a friend to Mary?” 

The Doctor nodded ; his eyes were full. 

The sick man drew from his breast a small apibrotype, 
pressed it to his lips, and poised it in his trembling fingers. 
It was the likeness of the little Alice. He turned his eye« 
to his friend. 

“ I didn’t need Mary’s. But this is all I’ve ever seen of 
my little girl. To-morrow, at daybreak, — it will be just 
&t daybreak, — when you see that I’ve passed, I want you 
to lay this here on my breast. Then fold my hands upon 
it” — 

His speech was arrested. He seemed to hearken an 
instant. 

“ Doctor,” he said, with excitement in his eye and 
sudden strength of voice, “ what is that I hear?” 

“Idon’t know,” replied his friend; “one of the ser¬ 
vants probably down in the hall.” But he, too, seemed to 
have been startled. He lifted his head. There was a 
sound of some one coming up the stairs in haste. 

“ Doctor.” The Doctor was rising from his chair. 

“ Lie still, Richling.” 

But the sick man suddenly sat erect. 

“ Doctor — it’s — O Doctor, I ” — 

The door flew open; there was a low outcry from the 
threshold, a moan of joy from the sick man, a throwing 
wide of arms, and a rush to the bedside, and John and 
Mary Richling — and the little Alice, too — 

Come, Doctor Sevier; come out and close the door. 

“Strangest thing on earthl”! once heard a physi¬ 
cian say,— “ the mysterious power that the dying so often 
ha V 3 to fix the very hour of their approaching end I ” It 
was so in John Richling’s case. It was as he said. Had 
Mary and Alice not come when they did, they would 


A GOLDEN SUNSET. 


453 


have been too late. He “ tarried but a night; ” and at 
the dawn Mary uttered the bitter cry of the widow, and 
Doctor Sevier closed the eyes of the one who had com¬ 
mitted no fault, — against this world, at least, —save 
that he had been by natui-e a pilgrim and a stranger in it. v/ 


454 


DR. SEVIER. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


▲FTBBOLOW. 


ARY, with Alice holding one hand, flowers in the 



-i-V-L other, was walking one day down the central 
avenue of the old Girod Cemetery, breaking the silence 
of the place only by the soft grinding of her footsteps on 
the shell walk, and was just entering a transverse alley, 
when she stopped. 

Just at hand a large, broad woman, very plainly 
dressed, was drawing back a single step from the front 
of a tomb, and dropping her hands from a coarse vase of 
flowers that she had that moment placed on the narrow 
stone shelf under the tablet. The blossoms touched, 
without hiding, the newly cut name. She had hung a 
little plaster crucifix against it from above. She must 
have heard the footfall so near by, and marked its stop¬ 
page ; but, with the oblivion common to the practisers of 
her religion, she took no outward notice. She crossed 
herself, sank upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the 
shrine she had made remained thus. The tears ran down 
Mary’s face. It was Madame Z^nobie. They went and 
lived together. 

The name of the street where their house stood has 
slipped me, as has that of the clean, unfrequented, round- 
stoned way up which one looked from the small cottage’s 
veranda, and which, running down to their old arched 
gate, came there to an end, as if that were a pretty place 
tc stop at in the shade until evening. Grass grows now, 


AFTEBGLOW. 


45d 


as it did then, between the round stones; and in the tow¬ 
ering sycamores of the reddened brick sidewalk the long, 
quavering note of the cicada *)arts the wide summer noon- 
day silence. The stillness yields to little else, save now and 
then the tinkle of a mule-bell, where in the distance the 
softly rumbling street-car invites one to the centre of the 
town’s activities, or the voice of some fowl that, having 
laid an egg, is asserting her right to the credit of it. 
Some forty feet back, within a mossy brick wall that 
stands waist-high, surmounted by a white, open fence, the 
green wooden balls on top of whose posts are full eight 
feet above the sidewalk, the cottage stands high up among 
a sweet confusion of pale purple and pink crape myrtles, 
oleanders white and red, and the bristling leaves and 
plumes of white bells of the Spanish bayonet, all in the 
shade of lofty magnolias, and one great pecan. 

“ And this is little Alice,” said Doctor Sevier with 
gentle gravity, as, on his first visit to the place, he shook 
hands with Mary at the top of the veranda stairs, and laid 
his fingers upon the child’s forehead. He smiled into her 
uplifted face as her eyes examined his, and stroked the lit¬ 
tle crown as she turned her glance silently upon her mother, 
as if to inquire if this were a trustworthy person. Mary 
led the way to chaii-s at the veranda’s end where the south 
breeze fanned them, and Alice retreated to her mother’s 
side until her silent question should be settled. 

It was still May. They spoke the praises of the day 
whose sun was just setting. And Mary commended the 
house, the convenience of its construction, its salubrity ; 
and also, and especially, the excellence and goodness of 
Madame Z4nobie. What a complete and satisfactory 
arrangement I Was it not? Did not the Doctor think 
80 ? 

But the Doctor’s affirmative responses were unfrequent, 


456 


DR* SlQ V USB* 


and quite without enthusiasm ; and Mary’s face, wearing 
more cheer than was felt within, betrayed, moreover, the 
feeling of one who, having done the best she knew, falls 
short of commendation. 

She was once more in deep black. Her face was pale, 
and some of its lines had yielded up a part of their 
excellence. The outward curves of the rose had given 
place to the inward curves of the lily — nay, hardly all 
that; for as she had never had the full red queenliness of 
the one. nei .her had she now the severe sanctitude of the 
other , that soft glow of inquiry, at once so blithe and so 
self-contained, so modest and so courageous, humble, yet 
free, still played about her saddened eyes and in her 
tones. Through the glistening sadness of those eyes 
smiled resignation ; and although the Doctor plainly read 
care about them and about the mouth, it was a care that 
was forbearing to feed upon itself, or to take its seat on 
her brow. The brow was the old one; that is, the young. 
The joy of life’s morning was gone from it forever; but a 
chastened hope was there, and one could see peace hov¬ 
ering just above it, as though it might in time alight. 
Such were the things that divided her austere friend’s at¬ 
tention as she sat before him, seeking, with timid smiles 
and interrogative argument, for this new beginning of life 
some heartiness of approval from him. 

“ Doctor,” she plucked up courage to say at last, with 
a geniality that scantily hid the inner distress, “you 
don’t seem pleased.” 

“ I can’t say I am, Mary. You’ve provided for things 
in sight; but I see no provision for unseen contingencies. 
They’re sure to come, you know. How are you going to 
meet them ? ” 

“ Well,” said Mary, with slow, smiling caution, “ thcre’f 
my two thousand dollars that you’re put at interest for roe 


ATTBKGLOW. 


457 


“Why, no; yoiiVe already counted the interest on 
that as part of your necessary income.” 

“ Doctor, ‘ the Lori will provide,^ will he not?” 

“ No.” 

“ Why, Doctor I ” — 

“ No, Mary; you’ve got to provide. He’s not going 
to set aside the laws of nature to cover our improvidence. 
That would be to break faith with all creation for the sake 
of one or two creatures.” 

“ No; but still, Doctor, without breaking the laws 
of nature, he will provide. It’s in his word.” 

“Yes, and it ought to be in his word — not in ours. 
It’s for him to say to us, not for us to say to him. But 
there’s another thing, Mary.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ It’s this. But first I’ll say plainly you’ve passed 
through the fires of poverty, and they haven’t hurt ^ou. 
You have one of those imperishable natures tnat fire 
can’t stain or warp.” 

“0 Doctor, how absurd I” said Mary, with bright 
genuineness, and a tear in either eye. She drew Alice 
closer. 

“ Well, then, I do see two ill effects,” replied the Doc¬ 
tor. “ In the first place, as I’ve just tried to show you, 
you have caught a little of the recklessness of the poor.” 

“ I was born with it,” exclaimed Mary, with amuse¬ 
ment. { 

“Maybe so,” replied her friend; “at aoy rate you I 
show it.” He was silent. 

“ But what is the other?” asked Mary. 

“ Why, as to that, I may mistake; but — you seem 
inclined to settle down and be satisfied with poverty.” 

“ Having food and raiment,” said Mary, smiling with 
some archness, “to be therewith content.” 


458 


DE. SBVIEB. 


“Yes, but** —the physician shook his head—“ that 
doesn’t mean to be satisfied. It*8 one thing to be con 
tent with God’s providence, and it’s another to be satisfied 
with poverty. There’s not one in a thousand that I’d 
venture to say it to. He wouldn’t understand the fine 
difference. But you will. I’m sure you do.** 

“ Yes, I do.** 

“ I know you do. You know poverty has its tempta¬ 
tions, and warping influences, and debasing effects, just 
as truly as riches have. See how it narrows our useful¬ 
ness. Not always, it is true. Sometimes our best use¬ 
fulness keeps us poor. That’s poverty with a good 
excuse. But that’s not poverty satisfying, Mary** — 

“ No, of course not,” said Mary, exhibiting a degree 
of distress that the Doctor somehow overlooked. 

“ It’s merely,” said he, half-extending his open palm, — 
“ it’s merely poverty accepted, as a good soldier accepts 
the dust and smut that are a necessary part of the battle. 
Now, here’s this little girl.” — As his open white hand 
pointed toward Alice she shrank back; but the Doctor 
seemed blind this afternoon and drove on. — “In a few 
years — it will not seem like any time at all — she’ll be 
half grown up; she’ll have wants that ought to be 
supplied.” 

“ Oh! don’t,” exclaimed Mary, and burst into a flood 
of tears; and the Doctor, while she hid them from her 
child, sat silently loathing his own stupidity. 

“ Please, don’t mind it,” said Mary, stanching the flow. 
“You w(Te not so badly mistaken. I wasn’t satisfied, 
but I was about to surrender.” She smiled at herself 
and her warlike figure of speech. 

He looked away, passed his hand across his forehead 
and must hare muttered audibly his self-reproach; fco 


ATTERGLOW. 


45S 


Mary looked up again with a faint gleam of the old 
radiance in her face, saying: — 

“ Tm glad you didn’t let me do it. I’ll not do it. I’ll 
take up the struggle again. Indeed, I had already thought 
of one thing I could do, but I — I — in fact, Doctor, I 
thought you might not like it.” 

“ What was it? ” 

“ It was teaching in the public schools. They’re in 
the hands of the military government, I am told. Are 
they not?” 

“ Yes.’" 

“ Still,” said Mary, speaking rapidly, “ I say I’ll keep 
up the ” — 

But the Doctor lifted his hand. 

“ No, no. There’s to be no more struggle.” 

“ No?” Mary tried to look pleasantly incredulous. 

“ No; and you’re not going to be put upon anybody’s 
bounty, either. No. What I was going to say about 
this little girl here was this, — her name is Alice, is it? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The mother dropped an arm around the child, and both 
•he and Alice looked timidly at the questioner. 

“ Well, by that name, Mary, I claim the care of her.” 

The color mounted to Mary’s brows, but the Doctor 
raised a finger. 

“ I mean, of course, Mary, only in so far as such care 
can go without molesting your perfect motherhood, an^ 
aU its oflSces and pleasures.” 

Her eyes filled again, and her lips parted; but tha 
Doctor was not going to let her reply. 

Don’t try to debate it, Mary. You must see you 
have no case. Nobody’s going to take her from you, 
nor do any other of the foolish things, I hope, that are 
to often done in such cases. But you’ve called hei 


160 


DB» SEi^TEB* 


Alice, and Alice she must be. I don’t propose to take 
care of her for you ” — 

“ Oh, no ; of course not,” interjected Mary. 

“ No,” said the Doctor; “ you’ll take care of her for 
me. I intended it from the first. And that brings up 
another point. You mustn’t teach school. No. I have 
something else — something better — to suggest. Mary, 
you and John have been a kind of blessing to me ” — 

She would have interrupted with expressions of aston¬ 
ishment and dissent, but he would not hear them. 

“ I think I ought to know best about that,” he said. 
“ Your husband taught me a great deal, I think. I want 
to put some of it into practice. We had a — an under¬ 
standing, you might say — one day toward the — end — 
that I should do for him some of the things he had so 
longed and hoped to do—for the poor and the unfortunate.” 

I know,” said Mary, the tears dropping down her 
face. 

“ He told you?” asked the Doctor. 

She nodded. 

“ Well,” resumed the Doctor, “ those may not be his 
words precisely, but it’s what they meant to me. And I 
said I’d do it. But I shall need assistance. I’m a medi¬ 
cal practitioner. I attend the sick. But I see a great 
deal of other sorts of sufferers ; and I can’t stop for them.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Mary, softly. 

“ No,” said he; “I can’t make the inquiries and in¬ 
vestigations about them and study them, and all that 
kind of thing, as one should if one’s help is going to be 
help. I can’t turn aside for all that. A man must have 
one direction, you know. But you could look after 
those things ” — 

it I?” 

“Certainly. You could do it Just as I — Just as 


ATTEBGLOW. 


461 


7ohn — would wish to see it done. You^re Just the kind 
of person to do it right.” 

“O Doctor, don’t say sol Tm not fitted for it at 

all.” 

“ Fm sure you are, Mary. You’re fitted by character 
xnd outward disposition, and by experience. You’re full 
of cheer ” — 

She tearfully shook her head. But he insisted. 

“ You will be — for hia sake, as you once said to me. 
Don’t you remember ? ” 

She remembered. She recalled all he wished her to: 
the prayer she had made that, whenever death should part 
her husband and her, he might not be the one left behind. 
Yes, she remembered; and the Doctor spoke again : — 

“ Now, I invite you to make this your principal busi¬ 
ness. Fll pay you for it, regularly and well, what I 
think it’s worth; and it’s worth no trifle. There’s not 
one in a thousand that I’d trust to do it, woman or 
man; but I know you will do it all, and do it well, 
without any nonsense. And if you want to look at 
it so, Mary, you can just consider that it’s John doing it, 
all the time; for, in fact, that’s just what it is. It beats 
sewing, Mary, or teaching school, or making preserves, 
I think.” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, looking down on Alice, and strok¬ 
ing her head. 

“ You can stay right here where you are, with Madame 
Z4nobie, as you had planned; but you’ll give yourself to 
this better work. I’ll give you a carte blanche. Only 
one mistake I charge you not to make ; don’t go and come 
from day to day on the assumption that only the poor are 
poor, and need counsel and attention.” 

“ I know that would be a mistake,” said Mary. 

“ But I mean more than that,” continued the Doctor. 


462 


DB« SBVIKB* 


You must keep a hold on the rich and comfortable and 
happy. You want to be a medium between the two, 
identified with both as completely as possible. It's t 
hard task, Mary. It will take all your cunning." 

“ And more, too," replied she, half-musing. 

“You know," said the Doctor, “ Fm not to appear in 
the matter, of course; Fm not to be mentioned: that 
mast be one of the conditions.” 

Mary smiled at him through her welling eyes. 

“ Fm not fit to do it,” she said, folding the wet spots 
of her handkerchief under. “But still, Fd rather not 
refuse. If I might try it, I'd like to do so. If I could 
do it well, it would be a finer monument — to him ” — 

“Than brass or marble,” said Dr. Sevier. “Yes, 
more to his liking.” 

“Well,” said Mary again, “ if you think I can do it 
I'll try it.” 

“ Very well. There's one place you can go to, to begin 
with, to-morrow morning, if you choose. I’ll give you 
the number. It's just across here in Casa Calvo street.” 

“ Narcisse's aunt?" asked Mary, with a soft gleam of 
amusement. 

“ Yes. Have you been there already? 

She had ; but she only said : — 

“There's one thing that Fm afraid will go against me, 
Doctor, almost everywhere.” She lifted a timid look. 

The Doctor looked at her inquiringly, and in his private 
thought said that it was certainly not her face or voice. 

“ Ah I ” he said, as he suddenly recollected. “ Yes ; 1 
had forgotten. You mean your being a Union woman." 

“Yes. It seems to me they’ll be sure to find it onl 
Don’t you think it will interfere ? ” 

The Doctor mused 


AFTERGLOW. 


463 


“ I forgDt that,” he repeated, and mused again. Toa 
can’t blame us, Mary; we’re at white heat **— 

“ Indeed I don’t! ” said Mary, with eager earnestness. 

He reflected yet again. 

“ But — I don’t know, either. It may be not as great 
a drawback as you think. Here’s Madame Z4nobie, for 
instance ” — 

Madame Z4nobie was just coming up the front steps 
from the garden, pulling herself up upon the veranda 
wearily by the balustrade. She came forward, and, with 
graceful acknowledgment, accepted the physician’s out¬ 
stretched hand and courtesied. 

“ Here’s Madame Z4nobie, I say; you seem to get 
along with her.” 

Mary smiled again, looked up at the standing quadroon, 
and replied in a low voice: — 

“ Madame Z4nobie is for the Union herself.” 

“ Ah I no-o-o ! ” exclaimed the good woman, with an 
alarmed face. She lifted her shoulders and ex¬ 
tended what Narcisse would have called the han’ 
of rep-u-diation; then turned away her face, lifted up 
her underlip with disrelish, and asked the surrounding 
atmosphere,—“ Wbat I got to do wid Union? Nuttin’ 
do wid Union — nuttin’ do wid Conf4d4racie I ” She 
moved away, addressing the garden and the house by 
turns. ‘‘Ah! no I” She went in by the front door, 
talking Creole French, until she was beyond hearing. 

Dr. Sevier reached out toward the child at Mary’s knee. 
Here was one who was neither for nor against, nor yet a 
fear-constrained neutral. Mary pushed her persuasively 
toward the Doctor, and Alice let herself be lifted to 
his lap. 

“ I used to be for it myself,” he said, little dreaming 
he would one day be for it again. As the child sank 


464 


DR. SEVIER. 


back into his arm, he noticed a miniature of her fathei 
hanging from her neck. He took it into h^ fingers, and 
all were silent while he looked long upon the face. 

By and by he asked Mary for an account of her wan¬ 
derings. She gave it. Many of the experiences, that 
had been hard and dangerous enough when she was 
passing through them, were full of drollery when they 
came to be told, and there was much quiet amusement 
over them. The sunlight faded out, the cicadas hushed 
their long-drawn, ear-splitting strains, and the moon had 
begun to shine in the shadowy garden when Dr. Sevier 
at length let Alice down and rose to take his lonety home¬ 
ward way, leaving Mary to Alice’s prattle, and, when 
that was hushed in slumber, to gentle tears and whispered 
thanksgivings above the little head. 


465 


*’yet shall he live.” 


CHAPTER LX. 

“yet shall he live.” 

W E need not follow Mary through her ministrations. 

Her office was no sinecure. It took not only much 
labor, but, as the Doctor had expected, it took all her 
cunning. True, nature and experience had equipped her 
for such work; but for all that there was an art to be 
learned, and time and again there were cases of mental 
and moral decrepitude or deformity that baffied all her skill 
until her skill grew up to them, which in some cases it 
never did. The greatest tax of aU was to seem, and to 
be, unprofessional; to avoid regarding her work in quan¬ 
tity, and to be simply, merely, in every case, a personal 
friend; not to become known as a benevolent itinerary, 
but only a kind and thoughtful neighbor. Blessed word! 
not benefactor — neighbor I 

She had no schemes for helping the unfortunate by 
multitude. Possibly on that account her usefulness was 
less than it might have been. But I am not sure; for 
they say her actual words and deeds were but the seed 
of ultimate harvests; and that others, moreover, seeing 
her light shine so brightly along this seemingly narrow 
path, and moved to imitate her, took that other and 
broader way, and so both fields were reaped. 

But, I say, we need not follow her steps. They would 
lead deviously through ill-smelling military hospitals, 
and into buUdings that had once been the counting-rooms 
of Carondelet-street cotton merchants, but were now oe- 


466 


DR. SEVTEB. 


come the prisons of soldiers in gray. One of these plaie», 
restored after the war as a cotton factor’s counting-room • 
again, had, until a few years ago, a queer, clumsy patch 
in the plastering of one wall, near the base-board. Some 
one had made a rough inscription on it with a cotton 
sampler’s marking-brush. It commemorates an incident. 
Mary b}" some means became aware beforehand that this 
incident was going to occur; and one of the most trying 
struggles of conscience she ever had in her life was that 
in which she debated with herself one whole night whether 
she ought to give her knowledge to others or keep it to 
herself. She kept it. In fact, she said nothing until 
the war was all over and done, and she never was quite 
sure whether her silence was right or wrong. And 
when she asked Dr. Sevier if he thought she had 
done wrong, he asked : — 

“You knew it was going to take place, and kept 
silence ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mary. 

“ And you want to know whether you did right? ** 

“ Yes. I’d like to know what you think.” 

He sat very straight, and said not a word, nor changed 
a line of his face. She got no answer at all. 

The inscription was as follows ; I used to see it every 
work-day of the week for years — it may be there yet — 
190 Common street, first flight, back office; — 



467 


^**TET SHALL HE LIVE.'’ 

But we move too fast. Let us go back into the war for 
a moment longer. Mary pursued her calling. The most 
of it she succeeded in doing in a very sunshiny way. 
She carried with her, and left behind her, cheer, courage, 
hope. Yet she had a widow’s heart, and whenever she 
took a widow’s hand in hers, and oftentimes, alone or 
against her sleeping child’s bedside, she had a widow’s 
tears. But this work, or these works, — she made each 
particular ministration seem as if it were the only one, — 
these works, that she might never have had the oppor¬ 
tunity to perform had her nest-mate never been taken from 
her, seemed to keep John near. Almost, sometimes, he 
seemed to walk at her side in her errands of mercy, or to 
spread above her the arms of benediction. And so even 
the bitter was sweet, and she came to believe that never 
before had widow such blessed commutation. 

One day, a short, slight Confederate prisoner, newly 
brought in, and hobbling about the place where he was 
confined, with a vile bullet-hole in his foot, came up to 
her and said : — 

‘‘ Allow me, madam, — did that man call you by your 
right name, just now? ” 

Mary looked at him. She had never seen him before. 

“ Yes, sir,” she said. 

She could see the gentleman, under much rags and 
dirt. 

“ Are you Mrs. John Richling?” 

A look of dismay came into his face as he asked the 
grave question. 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Mary. 

His voice dropped, and he asked, with subdued haste: — 

“ Ith it pothible you’re in mourning for him?” 

She nodded. 

It was the little rector. He had somehow got it into 


468 


DR. SEVIER. 


his head that preachers ought to fight, and this was ons 
of the results. Miry went away quickly, and told Dr 
Sevier. The Doctor went to the commanding general. 
It was a great humiliation to do so, he thought. There 
was none worse, those days, in the eyes of the people. 
He craved and got the little man’s release on parole. A 
fortnight later, as Dr. Sevier was sitting at the breakfast 
table, with the little rector at its opposite end, he all at 
once rose to his full attenuated height, with a frown and 
then a smile, and, tumbling the chair backward behind 
him, exclaimed: — 

“ Why, Laura I” — for it was that one of his two gay 
young nieces who stood in the door-way. The banker’s 
wife followed in just behind, and was presently saying, 
with the prettiest heartiness, that Dr. Sevier looked no 
older than the day they met the Florida general at dinnei 
years before. She had just come in from the Confed¬ 
eracy, smuggling her son of eighteen back to the city, to 
save him from the conscript officers, and Laura had come 
with her. And when the clergyman got his crutches 
into his armpits and stood on one foot, and he and Laura 
both blushed as they^ shook hands, the Doctor knew that 
she had come to nurse her wounded lover. That she 
might do this without embarrassment, they got married, 
and were thereupon as vexed with themselves as they 
could be under the circumstances that they had not done 
it four or five years before. Of course there was no 
parade ; but Dr. Sevier gave a neat little dinner. Mary 
and Laura were its designers; Madame Zdnobie was the 
master-builder and made the gumbo. One word about 
the war, whose smoke was over all the land, would hav9 
spoiled the broth. But no such word was spoken. 

It happened that the company was almost the same as 
that which had sat down in brighter days to that other diu- 


YET SHALL HE LIVE. 


469 


w 

ner, which the banker's wife recalled with so much pleasure. 
She and her husband and son were guests; also that 
Sister Jane, of whom they had talked, a woman of real 
goodness and rather unrelieved sweetness ; also her sister 
and bankrupted brother-in-law. The brother-in-law men¬ 
tioned several persons who, he said, once used to be very 
cordial to him and his wife, but now did not remember 
them; and his wife chid him, with the air of a fellow- 
martyr; but they could not spoil the tender gladness of 
the occasion. 

“Well, Doctor," said the banker's wife, looking quite 
the old lady now, “ I suppose your lonely days are over, 
now that Laura and her husband are to keep house for 
you." 

“Yes,” said the Doctor. 

But the very thought of it made him more lonely than 
ever. 

“It's a very pleasant and sensible arrangement,” said 
the lady, looking very practical and confidential; “Laura 
has told me all about it. It's just the thing for them and 
for you." 

“ I think so, ma'am," replied Dr. Sevier, and tried to 
make his statement good. 

“ I’m sure of it,” said the lady, very sweetly and gayly, 
and made a faint time-to-go beckon with a fan to her 
husband, to whom, in the farther drawing-room, Laura 
and Mary stood talking, each with an arm about the 
other's waist. 


470 


DR. SETIBB. 


CHAFfEE LXI, 

PEACE. 

J 'T came with tears. But, ah! it lifted suih an awfd! 

- load from the hearts even of those who loved the lost 
cause. Husbands snatched their wives once more to their 
bosoms, and the dear, brave, swarthy, rough-bearded, 
gray-jacketed boys were caught again in the wild arms of 
mothers and sisters. Everywhere there was glad, tearful 
kissing. Everywhere? Alas for the silent lips that re¬ 
mained unkissed, and the arms that remained empty I 
And alas for those to whom peace came too suddenly 
and too soon 1 Poor Narcisse ! 

His salary still continues. So does his aunt. 

The Ristofalos came back all together. How delighted 
Mrs. Colonel Ristofalo — I sa}" Mrs. Colonel Ristofalo — 
was to see Mary I And how impossible it was, when they 
sat down together for a long talk, to avoid every moment 
coming back to the one subject of “ him.” 

“Yes, ye see, there bees thim as called col-o-nels, 
whin in fact they bees only Uftinent col-o-nels. Yes. 
But it’s not so wid him. And he’s no different from the 
plain Raphael Ristofalah of eight year ago — the same 
perfict gintleman that he was when he sold b’iled eggs ! ” 
And the colonel’s “ lady ” smiled a gay triumph that 
gave Mary a new affection for her. 

Sister Jane bowed to the rod of an insc’nitable 
Providence. She could not understand how the Confed¬ 
eracy could fail, and justice still be justice; »r, without 


FBACWc 


471 


antlerstandiDg, she left it all to Heaven, and clung to her 
faith. Her brother-in-law never recovered his fortunes 
nor his sweetness. He could not bend his neck to the 
conqueror’s yoke ; he went in search of liberty, to Brazil 
— or was it Honduras? Little matter which, now, for 
\e died there, both he and his wife, just as their faces 
were turning again homeward, and it was dawning upon 
them once more that there is no land like Dixie in all the 
wide world over. 

The little rector — thanks, he says, to the skill of Dr. 
Sevier! — recovered perfectly the use of his mangled foot, 
so that he even loves long walks. I was out walking 
with him one sunset hour in the autumn of — if I remem¬ 
ber aright—1870, when whom should we spy but our 
good Kate Ristofalo, out driving in her family carriage ? 
The cherubs were beside her,— strong, handsome boys. 
Mike held the reins; he was but thirteen, but he looked 
full three years better than that, and had evidently em¬ 
ployed the best tailor in St. Charles street to fit his rather 
noticeable clothes. His mother had changed her mind 
about his being a bruiser, though there isn’t a doubt he 
had a Derringer in one or another of his pockets. No, 
she was proposing to make him a doctor — “a surgeon,” 
she said ; “ and thin, if there bees another war ”— She 
was for making every edge cut. 

She did us the honor to stop the carriage, and drive up 
to the curb-stone for a little chat. Her spirits were up, 
for Colonel Ristofalo had Just been made a city council- 
!san by a rousing majority. 

We expressed our regret not to see Raphael himself m 
the family group enjoying the exquisite air. 

“Ha, ha! He ride out for pleasure?” — And then, 
with sudden gravity, — “ Aw, naw, sur! He’s too busy. 
Much use ut is to be raarriexl to a public man ! Ah ! sura, 


472 


DR. SEVIER. 


rm mighty tired of ut, now I tell ye I ” Yet she laughed 
again, without betraying much fatigue. “ And how's 
Dr. Sevier?” 

“ He's well," said the clergyman. 

“ And Mrs. Eichling ? ” 

“ She's well, too.*' 

Kate looked at the little rector out of the comers of her 
roguish Irish eyes, a killing look, and said: — 

“ Ye're sure the both o' thim bees well? " 

“Yes, quite well," replied he, ignoring the inane effort 
at jest. She nodded a blithe good-day, and rolled on 
toward the lake, happy as the harvest weather, and with 
a kind heart for all the world. We walked on, and after 
the walk I dined with the rector. Dr. Sevier's place was 
vacant, and we talked of him. The prettiest piece of 
furniture in the dining-room was an extremely handsome 
child's high chair that remained, unused, against the 
wall. It was Alice's, and Alice was an almost daily vis¬ 
itor. It had come in almost simultaneously with Laura’s 
marriage, and more and more frequently, as time had 
passed, the waiter had set it up to the table, at the Doc¬ 
tor’s right hand, and lifted Goldeuhair into it, until by 
and by she had totally outgrown it. But she had not 
grown out of the place of favor at the table. In these 
later days she had become quite a school-girl, and the 
Doctor, in his place at the table, would often sit with a 
faint, continuous smile on his face that no one could bring 
there but her, to hear her prattle about Madame Locquet, 
and the various girls at Madame Locquet's school. 

“ It's actually pathetic,” said Laura, as we sat sipping 
our coffee after the meal, “ to see how he idolizes that 
child.” Alice had just left the room. 

“ Why don’t he idolize the child’s ”— begin her hus- 


PBAOB. 473 

band, in undertone, and did not have to finish to make as 
understand. 

“ He does,'" murmured the smiling wife. 

“ Then why shouldn't he tell her so?" 

“My dear!" objected the wife, very softly and pret¬ 
tily. 

“ I don't mean to speak lightly," responded the hus- 
!)and, “ but — they love each other; they suit each other; 
they complete each other ; they don't feel their disparity 
of years; they're both so linked to Alice that it would 
break either heart over again to be separated from her. 
I don't see why ” — 

Laura shook her head, smiling in the gentle way that 
only the happy wives of good men have. 

“ It will never be.” 

What changes! 

“ The years creep slowly by ”4-— 

We seem to hear the old song yet. What changes! 
Laura has put two more leaves into her dining-table. 
Children fill three seats. Alice has another. It is she, 
now, not her chair, that is tall — and fair. Mary, too, 
has a seat at the same board. This is their home now. 
Her hair is turning all to silver. So early? Yes; but 
she is — she never was — so beautiful I They all see it 
— feel it; Dr. Sevier—the gentle, kind, straight old 
Doctor — most of all. And oh! when they two, who 
have never joined hands on this earth, go to meet John 
and Alice, — which God grant may be at one and the 
same time, — what weeping there will be among God's 
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